


Heart of a Saint, Life of a Sinner

by freelance_writes11



Category: Heathers (1988)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Eventual Relationships, Explicit Language, F/F, F/M, Family Drama, Fluid Sexuality, Heather Duke Being an Asshole, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Other Ships Not Mentioned in Tags, Slow To Update, Teenage Drama
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-27
Updated: 2020-06-12
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:08:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 24,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22871494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freelance_writes11/pseuds/freelance_writes11
Summary: If it’s happily-ever-afters you want, stay away from Sherwood, Ohio. Courtney Caulfield would have stayed around longer if it weren’t for Heather; the day Veronica and J.D. called for an ambulance, they set fire to the curtains; the weekend the boat sank, Sherwood became a millionaire’s bitch.
Relationships: Heather Chandler & Heather Duke & Heather McNamara & Veronica Sawyer, Heather McNamara & Original Female Character(s), Jason "J. D." Dean/Veronica Sawyer
Comments: 10
Kudos: 15
Collections: Heathers, Heathers Fics





	1. All for a Girl Like You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heather Chandler is not the bitch to question.

Above Sherwood, Ohio the sun is bright, but as always in September it holds no real heat. The sound of laughter drifts up from the street, making the Westerburg senior feel alarmingly alone. The laughter isn’t the sound of friends, but of emotional hyenas. Their voices torment her without end, playing like a track, looping back to the start with seamless ease. She closes her eyes only to see theirs, full of judgement, full of delight, no trace of caring. How her cheeks burn hot, how the sight eggs them on − her differences, their shot in the arm.

All the reasons not to let them see her real face flood in, as if the eighteen year old’s conscience had sent her a blatant invitation. Little Miss Mythic Bitch would have her head if she knew she wasn’t ready for her. A soft panic bubbles in her chest as the voices get closer, and she knows it will only fade if she bows down to those shoulder pads. Not when, but if. So the student breathes slow and spreads out the 1989 yearbook across her lap.

As she flips through the pages, she can’t stop the memories from flooding back and the tears from burning her eyes. The old photos make her conscious of her age, of how much time had passed − and of what an interesting life the girl in the back of the book had had. Everyone surely remembered her face and that shit ton of potential. What had her last moments been like? Would school be the same without her?

Had she wanted to go out that night? Rumor has it she’d had a bad day and just needed something to make her feel better. It had only been a fling, some said − she wasn’t about to break up the happy home. She’d only given in because she was lonely. Poor girl didn’t know what hit her after.

“You have the vilest thoughts!”

“Stop reading my mind and maybe I wouldn’t.”

The senior curses powerfully under her breath and forces off one of her boots, but the double knotted restrictions won’t budge. She raises her foot up to her mouth to fiercely bite one of the laces and quickly makes do with what she can untie.

“No? She’s been missing since March and you’re not worried?” A third voice speaks to unheard apathy.

Harsh, stomach churning, juxtaposing laughter is the wordless response, followed by four drops of venom:

“Why should I be?”

The boot is torn off and a Sharpie flies out in time to the yearbook pitifully flopping out of reach.

“Fuck.” The girl kneels on the grass, snapping the cap off with her teeth and underlining names. _Dennis Herman, Peter Dawson, Kurt Kelly._ But the marker runs out of ink. “Fuck…!”

The senior shoves the yearbook into the open mouth of her cardigan, bundles it up and tosses it in a bush she swears to God better not be poison oak, because so help her—

“Heather!” When her hands are snatched and she’s forced to stand, a world of red and yellow and green spins around her eyes. She has no chance to find her words. “H-how long have you been standing there?”

“Abou-about three minutes?” The red scrunchie-bearing piranha mocks, her mirrored images laughing at her sides. “How, exactly, did you think that sneaking out the back of Tommy’s Restaurant would help you? Do you like making me look like an ass?”

“Yeah, that was a real shitty thing to do, flaking on us like that.” All the ‘friendly’ shapes of Heather McNamara’s words in the mild afternoon are replaced by their milder counterparts.

“What a thing to do − and on a Friday! I mean, Heather worked really hard getting those Pierson boys all the way over here. That’s no way to thank her.” Heather Duke dampens the situation rather than adding to the flames.

“Goddamn Heather, if you want to kiss my ass, at least make sure your lipstick’s not smudged first.” Heather Chandler’s eyes flash like lightning while a grin much too wide contrasts her next words for the senior. “What’s your damage? You say you want to blow this fuck-eye state and go to college somewhere exciting. New York, D.C., California. My dad’s poker buddies with a Chicago State alumni, I get you into a Pierson _University_ party tonight, and what’s my thanks? Skid marks out the girls’ bathroom window.”

The apparent escapee’s face moves slow, as deadpan as she can manage, but the corners of her would-be somber lips crease in amusement. Just a tilt of the head is all it takes from Chandler to make the laughter evaporate as quickly as it had come.

“Oh, you think that’s funny.” A shrug. “You’re not sure? Well I’ve got something that’ll make up your mind.” A small, handwritten letter pops out from Chandler’s blazer, waving almost tantalizingly under the comedian’s nose. “What better teacher to write you a recommendation?”

The senior’s voice stammers and breaks when she attempts to speak, but her words don’t take off. Her eyes are full of remorse, the brown too glossy, as she desperately searches Chandler’s face for any tricks.

“Where did you get that?” She half yells, half begs to know.

“Amnesia much? Veronica sent it two weeks ago. You were there with me and Heather when we opened it.” Between the perfect stripes of eyeliner, Chandler’s hazel eyes chill into a cool hatred. “Wait a minute, that’s _right_ − you were out spreading gossip about me during your little road trip to Shermer. It’s a shame you didn’t get to find out she’s doing just fine without you. Oh well. At least in the meantime you found a hobby spreading something other than your legs.”

Heather Duke’s spluttering cackle is harsh and cold, Chandler’s crooked little laugh matches her crooked little smirk, and McNamara’s yellow knee-highs step out from one of the nearby bushes, her attention fixed on the discarded yearbook.

“Oh my god, I remember this,” she gushes nostalgically, flipping through a couple pages. “Come look at this Heather. Look at all the dweebs and freshmen we had last year. Crazy, right?”

“I’ll say.”

The left side of red lips tug upwards, that little rise in the corner of Heather Chandler’s mouth combined with the cool detachment in her eyes sealing someone’s fate.

“You know Heather, why don’t you all come over to my house tonight − 7:30, right before the party.” When Chandler turns, there are no more traces of tears in those brown eyes. She smirks, then comes the strut, the slamming and the clipped words:

“We’ll all look at the freaks, failures and fucks from our junior year one more time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve been wanting to write something for the Heathers fandom for the longest time and I finally got around to it! Updates will hopefully be on Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays and any free weekend time I get. ❤


	2. Most Likely to Be a Drifter.....CAULFIELD

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She didn’t work as devotedly as she had hoped she would, nor did she become a recluse from society like Westerburg had hoped she would.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Courtney Caulfield is the OC I have created for this story, not to be confused with Country Club Courtney of the film.

Courtney Caulfield had the round shoulders of a wallflower.

It was hard to get her attention under that black mop eclipsing her narrow face. Somewhere there were eyes. She would hold onto herself and try to take up less space than she was already in a room, and her clothes…all of it old and none of it matching, looking too small in size and only exaggerating her skinniness.

She had fit right in to Westerburg’s staple of “prospering the still life and encouragements given to artists by the bestowal of great honors from the student body” − Kooky Fleming’s poetic word vomit − otherwise known as yearbook. Their immune system was phenomenal; four days in from summer break and they hadn’t shown any outlasting symptoms of relapse.

Unlike the rest of the class of ’89 that had no idea what they wanted to do with themselves, now that they were trapped back in the halls personally designed by a manic depressive.

Fleming had done her part to bring the media room to life, like burning weird bohemian incense sticks on the first day back or buying posters trying to out-mush the other ( _Make an Effort, Not an Excuse! Imagine, Believe, Achieve! It’s Not “I Don’t Know,” It’s “I’ll Give it a Try!”_ ). But Courtney longed to write the school board and have the entire building repainted, or better yet, blow off the roof and replace it with a glass dome so students could see how pretty the sky was and how the blue was bright and soft all at once.

Instead she sat, legs crossed and fingers scratching her knees, with a two man-two woman staff. She leaned forward to watch Peter Dawson across from her, still in his bright red sweater from homeroom. He was stacking his thoughts until they tumbled, mumbling about this and that, then he’d simper and start all over.

When he did a double take, his amber eyes meeting a darker counterpart, Courtney bit the side of her lip and approved him sharing with a tiny, “You can go now.”

Peter nodded. “They’ve, uh…” The boy brushed a finger under his nose, sniffing once, twice. “They’ve dropped.”

Alison Trenton, with her unruly pale twists and walkman surgically attached to the hip, let out a dry cackle.

“Congratulations, Peter. Does that mean our date for Saturday is still on?”

“I’m talking about yearbook sales!” Peter turned in a huff to address Miss Fleming, red splotching the back of his neck. “I’m not the only one who’s taken into account of this decrease, right?”

“Last year wasn’t nearly as impressive, but we still made do,” Dennis Herman chimed in, adjusting his larger-than-Peter-Dawson’s-IQ glasses over his face. “You think maybe it’s the way we promote?”

Alison scoffed. “Face it man, nobody’s interested in some factory-smelling, oversized almanac when everyone just hates each other but they’re too much of a pussy to say it to someone’s face.”

“I have noticed the drop in sales. And let’s watch the mouth Alison.”

Miss Fleming had her legs crossed too and a phantom cigarette lit for her much alive stress, her hair messier than usual and her attempt to keep things simple already waning.

“Now this, ladies and gentleman, this is just unsettling. A _drop_ in yearbook sales?” Every other syllable was overly exaggerated by her high strung pitch, making the teens scoot back. “Unbelievable! How can the thriving generation of the next not want to indulge in this…this opportune moment to capture their best character in action? Do they not feel the gross wounds that disable from action if they refuse to reflect on their years here?”

Silence followed, no one ever knowing how to properly step in the woman’s head space or how to agree/disagree on her level. Unsettled eyes glanced unceremoniously around, trying to avoid catching other glances that passed by, and when Courtney met Peter’s again, she shot him a wink above the pen she was absent-mindedly chewing.

“With all due respect Miss Fleming,” she began, still holding the pen between her teeth and still looking Peter’s way even though he’d turned away, “nobody wants to buy our yearbook ‘cause it’s horse shit.”

The guidance counselor’s eyebrows rose. “Miss Caulfield? The language please?”

“Oh, sorry, it’s uh… _merde de cheval_.”

Alison’s laugh, loud and throaty, didn’t seem to fit her. Dennis chuckled slow and warm, like honey falling. Peter’s poker straight mouth twitched upwards, his arms folded and eyebrows arched, waiting for the professionalism to return. Courtney could tell from the way he rolled his eyes and half bit his lip that he wanted to laugh just as much, but wanted to show the only adult in the room of his mature age for a seventeen year old.

Kiss ass.

“Now you all may find Miss Caulfield’s interpretation of our declining rates funny now,” Miss Fleming began, worming her way around the cramped room, “but will it still be humorous when there’s a gathering for an academics banquet? A summer social, perhaps, and there’s no yearbook for a freshman to show his parents? What if a senior wants to see how beautiful she looks in her prom dress but can’t show her friends in another state because there’s no need for pictures for our ‘horse shit’ yearbook?”

Peter hit his chest and coughed out an expired laugh in the otherwise silent and serious atmosphere. “Yes ma’am, we’ll figure something out.”

Courtney stretched out on the student-battered chair as the small talk petered out, flicking at the tape that peeled from the side to reveal the board underneath. She studied the outlines of each crease in the wall, thinking back to all the handprints and scuff marks she’d seen on the lockers and bleachers on her first day; all the fragments of fraying string and tiny triangles of construction paper the art room lacked one spring semester ago; all the broken glass and vermin in the sea of dirt in the woods behind the school. Maybe she would write the school board.

She’d do anything to not be reminded as much of how another day of tedium would be rammed down her throat with the keen sting of stress − always the tests, always the reporting, always the reminders of the consequences of failure.

“Come on people! Foresight and ingenuity of the rarest kinds are demanded here,” Miss Fleming cried out, smacking the pulpy cover of a decade old yearbook borrowed from the library. “A view in the life of the average student is one of the surest rules for a gross estimate of the highest professions of reverence and affection that they’ll give us! We can’t go lukewarm in these halls; we need to be red, _piping_ hot!”

Courtney teetered in her seat, biting her pen a little too close to the temporary crown in her mouth. “…highest professions of reverence and affection…” She snickered, then drew in a deep breath under Fleming’s burning hard stare from her not-so-quiet jab.

Dennis also brushed a finger under his nose but only sniffed once. “Not to sound like a brown-noser or anything, but anytime I look back at the photos we’ve compiled, I immediately think of Courtney.” He smiled at her. “She’s our best photo editor. Maybe our only one, but still the best I personally know.”

A lazy but encouraging grin dimpled in Alison’s cheeks. “Yeah, how about it? Think you can get us some candid shots around this shit hole?”

One quick glance at Fleming seemed to confirm Courtney’s duties, set in stone. “I guess I am.”

“Good, fine. Meeting complete,” Miss Fleming rushed out with a pleased nod. She waved the four away and tapped a cigarette in between her fingers pulled seemingly out of nowhere.

The halls seemed longer to Courtney for some reason, like an old canal passing through, except paint was scarred and peeling instead of watery greens covered with fresh vegetation. How long had that meeting gone? She twirled one of the yearbook committee passes she’d snatched for later around her neck, grinning at Alison’s sort of freestyle swagger by her side, snickering at Dennis’ shoelaces trailing the ground, over-long and frayed as they were, and scoffing next to the shined pointed-toe leather shoes of Peter fucking Dawson.

Christ, the boy could sneeze out $500 and make it look economical.

“Rough meeting,” Courtney numbly commented, startling just a bit at her voice in the quiet halls.

“Too rough on our dicks,” Alison seconded, hugging an arm around her shoulders. She jut her chin toward the boys. “What say you virgins?”

“We’ll get this squared away guys. Trust me on this.” Dennis was much more neutral bypassing Alison’s jibe than a flushed Peter did. “I’m actually kind of surprised Miss Fleming let us out early after giving us another earful.”

“Oh yes, it’s extremely important that we preserve the students of nature in all the ages that have taken the vow of education,” Alison, adopting a shrill accent to sound like the free spirited counselor, mocked. She basked in her laughing audience and pantomimed the way Fleming walked but backwards, taking a drag from an invisible cigarette. “We mustn’t neglect to capture them in their _wild_ beauty.”

The blonde comedian added another finger in, bopping a three-finger salute off her temple as she waved goodbye and headed for the stairs. Courtney had expected her to leave the trio with something to laugh at by the end of the day before the rest broke off. She hadn’t expected Peter to stumble to catch up and follow her to her locker.

“So you know how we’ve all been so busy and can’t always meet for yearbook? I think we should start pitching ideas for getting people interested in buying one now.”

The brunette raised an eyebrow, watching the retreating backs of Alison and Dennis. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. The whole decrease in sales talk really got me down, and there’s more to Fleming than meets the eye. I can tell she means business this time. We should take her advice and start taking this seriously, do something to spread the word like, uh…like a lunchtime poll!”

A grin spread over Peter’s face, showing his over-whitened teeth as his thoughts tumbled once more.

“We’ll ask students what they would want to see this year in their yearbook,” he rambled on, “or how we could make it more interesting for them. We let their voices be heard. We could even have them write in suggestions, and come next meeting we’ll tally up the most popular votes and put them in action.”

“Hey, I’m down for whatever.” Courtney hoped she wasn’t being rude in hoping that the hard slam of her locker would be the stop sign for the conversation. “We can make a suggestion box next week and fill Aly and Dennis in later.”

“Why not start today?” _Shit._ “We can get a head start before free period ends and wrap it up on Friday.”

The new sound of squeaky Doc Martens and preppy dress shoes echoed off the walls in a rush for the empty art room, not giving Courtney enough time to recompose herself, or silence some thoughts that wanted to verbally break out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve wanted to write some proper notes after a second chapter was released so readers will get a better grasp of the story. The rest of the chapters (excluding the very last one whenever that may be) will be told in past tense, alluding to Heather’s previous comment of going back to what happened in junior year.
> 
> My main idea is that I’ve incorporated the thought of what Westerburg would be like if Heather, Kurt, Ram and J.D. hadn’t died, and how that would affect others.
> 
> Chapters will vary in perspectives written for Courtney, Veronica, Heather C. (possibly the other Heathers, too), some of Peter and J.D., and they will keep to a connected atmosphere that directly or indirectly includes the main and/or supporting characters. I’ve also changed a small detail in the previous chapter; instead of someone being missing since December, they’ve been missing since March. And that “one night in October” has just been changed to “that night.”
> 
> I hope you’re liking this so far with how it’s going :)


	3. Most Likely to Openly Be a Bitch.....CHANDLER

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone knew her to be a bitch before, but they still either wanted her as a friend or a fuck.

Heather Chandler was the only name you would ever need to remember in the hallways.

They said she was mean. She was a baby that was left to cry in a cardboard box or a personality disorder the doctors couldn’t fix. She competed instead of complimented and had as much empathy as a medieval mace. There was nothing princess about her, but she was treated like royalty. She had a vulpine mouth, but that didn’t stop the boys from wanting a taste.

The soft either got tough or beaten every day of their lives. That’s just the way it was.

Light was already falling through the ground’s dank reflection of the peeling vinyl floors, trapping dirt and grime in the corners and funking up the smells of urine from under the toilets. Heather cast her gaze at Heather D. just long enough to catch her red eyes and mopey pout, the lackluster face of Chandler a polar opposite to the agitation flaring in the brunette’s bulimic stomach.

Duke sniffed and gave her friends a soft apologetic glance. “It’s like, I have this freedom now and I’m going with it, but I’m also kinda sad.”

Heather M. rubbed her back the best she could, worrying her long upper lip to say the right thing. “Don’t let him rile you up, Heather. You went out of your way to help him so many times, but he dissed you anyway. Don’t mack on him any further. He’s just a buster.”

Chandler rolled her eyes. Why was Heather babbling like some lame Blockbuster teen flick? Seriously, it wasn’t the end of the world that Michael Gallimore didn’t want to suck face with bookworms anymore. Thespians were more his style, didn’t Heather hear?

“I just didn’t want things to change. I wanted to act like it was gonna work, like…” Duke had never learned to cry with style. She fussed by the sink, hands clutching her blazer after she had thrown another tissue into the overflowing trash bin. “…like we could be friends, like we could keep talking, like we could keep hooking up. You should hear his game! He knows how to come on to a girl.”

McNamara frowned and glanced Chandler’s way, who wasn’t moved by her blubber. In the mirror, her carmine lipstick curved across smirking lips and a pretty eye line in deep espresso was carefully drawn over the top.

“It’s just your virginity you spilled on my blouse, Michael, no biggie.” Chandler casually skinned Duke alive.

“You’re not funny.” Chandler turned to Veronica, eyebrows raised. “Come on, don’t be a jerk. Heather really loved him.”

“Oh, gag me with a spoon.” Chandler watched Duke reach for the paper towels and waited for her to start blotting her eyes before turning around and smacking her wrist, causing both the paper and the girl to jump. “Are you off your medication or are you just that dumb? If you play Michael Gallimore one-on-one, you’re going to get schooled.”

Duke’s lower lip, swollen and pink, shook as the tears returned and dropped on her new pumps. “I’ve only ever met one guy I could call trusting. I told him everything, Heather; my life, my secrets, about my family, and now he doesn’t even want to hear my voice anymo−!”

In the limited bathroom space Chandler could pace, she had eventually stopped and cupped her hands for some tap water, splashing it all over Duke to get her to shut up. She used the same paper towel she dried her hands with to start patting her friend’s cheeks, smiling in a way she could tell made Duke want to take a step back.

“This is what they do to horses when they start whining,” she said as she sponged Duke’s face, dripping water everywhere. “Michael broke up with you. So what? Pass out in front of the TV all night. Go to Taco Bell with Heather. Find a party this weekend and get drunk with someone. You’re not going to stand here crying off your makeup for an ass like that. I’m ready to forget this even happened if you are.”

Chandler tested her lips in the mirror and zipped her makeup pouch shut, instructing Heather to get Heather cleaned up and snapping her fingers for Veronica to follow her to the library. There were so many gross colors out in the halls, garish in the bold ceiling lights that made Chandler’s skin chafe, and from two of the lights dangled some stupid banner used for home games or overdone prom proposals.

She scoffed as she walked under it − “ **T** ogether **E** veryone **A** chieves **M** ore”− and when she spotted Veronica falling short behind her, as soon as her brown eyes caught hers, she performed a glorious big eye roll. A gesture Chandler reciprocated right away.

“That wasn’t very nice.” Jesus tap-dancing Christ, Veronica was still trying to give her a talking down to?

“Which part? Giving her advice or giving her a second chance?”

“You didn’t have to shit on her like that. You sunk your claws in pretty deep this time. Was Heather being a bit dramatic? Maybe, but—”

“Butts are for ashtrays Veronica, and if you’re going to try to blow smoke up my ass, you better make sure you’re aiming right.” The Red Piranha (as she was known around Westerburg) stopped Veronica beside the stairwell. “I know what I said, and I don’t give a damn if Heather starts crying about how the truth hurts or that whole sticks and stones bullshit. Michael Gallimore was an airhead who didn’t know Tom Cruise from cruise control. I did her a favor.”

“By mocking her ex-virginity and splashing water all over her face?”

“Veronica.” Chandler breathed through her nose, nice and slow, then offered the same smile she’d given Duke. “You better thank me. I’m in a good mood, but come tomorrow no more easy passes for you. Now, on to the library.”

“Why Heather, I never pegged you as an avid reader.”

“Please, if I ever needed a copy of _Moby Dick_ just harpoon me before the question leaves my mouth. No. I need you to pen a little something in Peter Dawson’s handwriting so we’ll give an early birthday present to Courtney Caulfield.”

“Why?”

Blatant irony took the two shots to send the girls out when Peter’s voice rose from down the halls. Chandler took Veronica’s elbow and pulled her into a space by the lockers that could hide them if no one paid attention. Soon the magnetic preppie had turned the corner with one of the leading ebony members of the Ash People tailing him like a puppy. Seriously, did the chic own anything other than drab, bagged, and sad?

Veronica nudged Chandler’s ribs after a minute of hiding. “Why do you want me to write a fake note to Courtney? She’s a good girl.”

“A good girl? What, did John Mellencamp sing about her in _Chestnut Street Incident_? Veronica, she’s a bluebird and you know it. We gotta get her out of the nest sometime, and if I didn’t know any better”—Chandler nodded her head out towards the retreating pair, the corner of her mouth hanging open in giddy anticipation—“I’d say she’s got her eyes out for a real thick worm.”

She had caught up with the two before Veronica could blink, smiling at Peter in a way that never meant good things, but already his face was washed with curiosity.

“Hello Peter,” she greeted, eyes narrowed and head tilted to let her hair dangle. “Hello Courtney.”

Peter smiled to be polite, but Courtney smiled to be cautious.

“Hey Heather,” Peter greeted back. “Listen, we can’t really talk right now. We’re on our way to the art room to start on a suggestion box for yearbook.”

“A what?”

“We’re trying to round up student voices for what they want to see in their yearbook come May since, and I don’t know if you’ve heard, sales lately have been declining. They can write in suggestions, anonymous if they wish, and they can rest assured that Westerburg will hear them.”

“How very.” Chandler couldn’t force a smile at the lie but kept the tempo. “Are you two artists going to make something extra sweet today?”

“I’ll just meet you there.” Courtney’s walking off made her lurch just a bit, like she was leaning too far forwards. It was hard to tell, but she was leaving nonetheless. “I’m gonna stop by the library and take out yearbooks from the archives so we can get better ideas.”

Chandler, her stare still locked on the girl that bared distaste for her, leaned against a row of lockers for some natural noise to distract.

“Stare or don’t Peter. You won’t get anywhere.” Her eyes flashed onto the boy, watching him shift in his $83 Oxford shoes. The tip of her tongue pushed the inside of her cheeks in another gesture of giddy anticipation. “You like her, don’t you?”

“Jealous?”

Chandler’s laughter exploded until her whole face turned red and her shoulders shook in silent giggles.

“Jealous?” She repeated through her teeth. “Yes, that’s it − I am jealous. So fucking jealous that we’re not sleeping with each other anymore. God, you’re so smart.”

Peter scoffed something under his breath that could have been any one of Chandler’s many favorite insults. God, she hoped he had called her a bitch. Jerk was just too Pre-K, asshole was a step up but too gender neutral, skank she was willing to accept with a grain of salt.

“Could I please go to the art room?”

“Nobody’s stopping you. I just thought you’d like to know the temptress of the night likes you.”

“Come on, don’t call her that.”

“Why not? She takes her night job very seriously in playing hard to get. Better go after her before someone else does.”

“I don’t—” Peter’s jaw went slack, his open-palm gestures as empty as his words. “We just work on the yearbook together, okay? We don’t have time for any romantic advances or… That kind of stuff.”

“That kind of stuff? Come on Peter, use your big boy words. Tell me, and really be honest − do you think of Courtney all alone in your room with the lights off and your hands under the covers? Do you fantasize about her in the shower after a hot day of polo practice?”

“Cut it out, Heather.”

“I’ll bet she wears black lace panties, all silk in the back and _au naturel_ in the front. You know why she wears those shitty clothes to school?” Chandler was 100% sure Peter’s head shaking was to keep more than his temper from rising rather than answering no to her question. “So guys won’t know the real her. The rated R eye candy she’s saving to show someone real special. Who knows?” She finished up, topping her vixenish song and dance with a soft bow. “It could be you.”

Peter stormed away like his shoes (sure, his “shoes”) were too tight, making short little grumbling noises until he was out of sight. Veronica’s uncharacteristically quiet streak shattered when she sidled up to Chandler, nudging her shoulder out of annoyance rather than trying to get her attention. It worked either way.

“You’re a dick,” Sawyer mumbled, and Chandler smiled.

“I’m trying to get Courtney a boyfriend and that makes me a dick?”

Veronica scoffed and crossed her arms. “I take it we were never going to the library?”

At Chandler’s silence, it took Veronica only a minute to get the answer and storm off just like Peter had. Chandler shrugged to herself and rummaged through her makeup pouch for the hand mirror Duke had gotten for her sixteenth birthday, the sight of the ombré cover bringing back the memory of a summer’s weekend in Cincinnati when she’d dared the green-clothed sophomore to consume the rest of her birthday cake.

Of course she had to throw it back up, getting the cold shoulder from Chandler until the end of June.

Duke thought it had been cute to buy cupcakes and serve it at McNamara’s next slumber party as a “sweet apology for being a pillowcase.” Chandler had made her eat all of them right in front of her, and Duke had given her more of a blood-warm shoulder until the Fourth of July − then apologized and let Chandler borrow her favorite dress for an Independence Day frat party over at Kent State.

How could anyone think of Heather Chandler as a bad friend? She got all her girlfriends into any college parties they wanted, she never sugarcoated anything so their egos could fit in their new jeans, and now all she wanted was for Miss Twiggy to eat more and the onyx oddball to have a nice boyfriend.

Familiar yellow heels _click-clacked_ down the hallway before Chandler could turn to see the color racing for her. “Heather, Heather’s all cleaned up now. She says she wants to skip fourth period and go to the mall with us.”

“Fine.” Chandler evened out the creases by her hairline, wordlessly handing McNamara her mirror so she could tend to her hair properly. “Heather, who’s Gallimore dating now? Jennifer Delvey?”

“No, I think it’s that weird girl with the glasses that sits by me in math. Betty Finn, I think. Why?”

“Just curious. Come on, let’s blow this shit stand.”


	4. Most Likely to Overthink.....DAWSON

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He rarely gave in to outside influences, but the unaccountable change in others was starting to perplex and trouble him to the point where maybe he should start listening to them.

Every house down D. Waters Boulevard was similar to the next, without any identifying marker of any kind. All paint jobs were fashionable shades of white and the porches old-fashioned parquet; tall gates had more security than a military compound; front lawns flaunted greens of summer gardens and marble fountains in the middle of fall, but the suburbia digressed.

Standing in what could be any part of the Priestley’s backyard, Peter understood his grave mistake when he “just so happened to be in the neighborhood walking down Keith’s street.” He had been certain that within half an hour or so, he would be in and out to say hi, maybe sit around for some strawberry lemonade and hark back on freshman year now that he was a soon-to-be undergraduate for college. (He had never been anything less than positive that he would get fast, early acceptance into an Ivy League school. Preferably Harvard, amen.)

He was sure he wouldn’t be staying late, but then Mrs. Priestley’s rose tinctured garden air had been a blessing to the nose, and then Keith had persuaded him that he could relax easier from the Mediterranean vibes the potted plants gave off in the study. By four o’clock Courtney Wyler had rung the doorbell, needing an open ear or two to spill the recent discounts, deals, and purchases her parents had made at the country club. Someone had bragged thrice about marinated Glenloth chicken and grilled trout with lemon for dinner, promising meringues would also be served “so beautifully shaped it would be a pity to eat them.”

Peter had only wanted to spend 30 minutes in that prestige two-story, but now he was loaning out three and a half hours for Keith, Courtney, and a pair of their friends. Possibly a full four hours if he was asked to stay for dinner.

Peter shifted on the delicately woven hanging basket chair, trying not to move too much as the velveted throw pillows were already facing some pressure and he’d be damned if he left an imprint of his ass on one of them. Keith’s mother would have a heart attack for sure. Speaking of Keith, he was squinting up at the scattered afternoon sunlight cosseting against a flushed sky, its blue gone behind the clouds.

“I haven’t seen a view like this since Mount McKinley,” he all but whispered to himself. “Remember that trip to Mount McKinley, Theo?”

Theodore Gallimore, the second youngest of the Gallimore bunch, nodded with a reminiscing grin. “Was it your dad or mine who nearly flopped headfirst into the southern coast when we were fifteen minutes from Juneau?”

“Mine, all mine. You should’ve seen him guys; we were whale-watching and he was beyond drunk off of the complimentary cocktails. My mom was a wreck; she was screaming and fretting because he wouldn’t stop leaning over the railing. _Three_ of the ship’s attendees had to haul him away before he drowned himself,” he added above the swelling of laughter. Peter spared a chuckle. “I love my old man, but it’s embarrassing going on summer trips with him.”

“It’s better than what my cousins did at my nephew’s bar mitzvah last month. God, it was a complete nightmare,” Courtney countered, cheeks aglow with the attention she would receive like Keith had with his retelling. Though she barely got a steady eye on her and wound up smiling off her words when the sandy blond was focused on Peter’s increase in thirst rather than her.

“You know Peter, it’s been ages since we’ve last hung out,” Keith was saying, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees.

Peter nearly spat out his lemonade. “It has?”

“Yeah, and I think I speak for everybody in the group when I say, well, we really miss you buddy.” Overlapped agreements and intent nods of the head made Peter feel the heat growing on the sides of his neck. It grew hotter when Keith roughly pat him on the back, sending the air out of him in a startled wheeze. “Don’t be a stranger, okay? Call us up every once in a while. Spend a weekend with us down by the docks, you know?”

The preppie nodded, staring down at his shot of lemonade left over. “Sure, I can try my best. I’ve missed you guys like crazy, too. I want you to know that. I know summers just don’t come fast enough for us—”

“Then let’s make our own,” Courtney’s best friend, Samantha Dobbs, cut in. Her eyes were abuzz with electricity and the brilliancy of the white in her pearl earrings bounced along with her springing to her feet. “My parents are driving down to West Virginia the Thursday after the next, and they’ve got complete trust in me to look after the house. Why shouldn’t they? I mean, sure, I can always do that after taking my friends out to Yellow Springs to celebrate my dad’s investment in The Glen.”

Courtney latched onto Samantha’s arm, muffling her excited squeals while Theo and Keith grinned at each other in approval. Peter thought that, well, spending a weekend at a nature reserve sounded pretty neat. He loved the mountains, the waterfalls, the trees and the animals, but the invitation was on a Thursday, and unless he was reading the school calendar wrong, there weren’t any teacher/student holidays then or for the following Friday. Blowing off school for the beautiful countryside was wrong, no matter how appealing it would look on his college application for traveling to a 19th-century landmark _also_ home to a private liberal arts college.

No, skipping class was unacceptable, and that was that.

“I’ll let you all know by next Thursday if I’m able to go,” Peter spoke up, already knowing his answer. “But if Samantha’s parents aren’t leaving for another two weeks, we don’t have to rush it, right? We could always go on a Saturday and wind down on Sunday.”

“Wouldn’t you rather have an extra special four-day weekend just for us five?” Samantha countered, the side of her mouth dipping in a stubborn scowl at Peter’s head shaking no. “Shit, don’t be selfish. All of us work hard and apply ourselves at school. Who are we killing if we take two measly days off?”

“Sam, don’t be so hard on him. Maybe he’s busy that day,” Theo suggested, getting a huffy and cigarette mixed ‘whatever’ from the blonde’s mouth. His eye roll landed on Peter, who gave him a cautionary smile. “How about it man? Anything keeping you on the ball-and-chain? You know, besides handing over those recommendation letters on a silver platter for Yale, Stanford, Princeton…”

“I get it, thank you.” Peter ran a finger under his nose. “I’ve just been involved with school more and don’t want to lose the momentum, that’s all. Soon in March I’ll have midterms to worry about, and I’m doing Greek and calculus in study hall instead of the library. Plus, Dennis and I have been working harder on The Foodless Fund. We’ve raised $65 this week so far and hope to raise an even $3,000 before the end of the spring semester. I’ve also been thinking of volunteering to help student council with—”

“Any debutantes giving you a hand with any of this?” Keith interrupted. Peter went quiet. “Oh my God, no? No one? Peter, you’re a junior for God’s sake! Have you been looking in all the right places?”

Peter’s shrug was the end of all things pleasant. Eight pairs of eyes and four sets of mouths swung from colorful gazes and enjoyable comments to their polar extremes. He may as well have just announced he robbed Chase National Bank because his teacher snubbed him one letter grade! Once again, he was the odd-one-out.

“You…you do want a nice girlfriend, don’t you?” Samantha asked, unnecessarily pausing and stressing out each word.

_Anyone would want a nice girlfriend._

Theo’s eyes were narrow and rigid like he was struggling with an algebraic equation. “Do you just think you don’t need one? I’m not saying ,‘oh, you’re not in a relationship? You’re a weirdo.’ But maybe that type of arrogance is probably a reason the freshmen and seniors find you repulsive.”

Repulsive? _Repulsive?_ Peter was nowhere near that description. What the hell! Seriously, what in the red flaming pits of hell was wrong with everyone today? When did the day turn into a 20/20 special about his love life?

“Well as long as we’re all sharing opinions and whatnot”—Keith’s stare was the knife to the ribs that ended it all for Peter, blunt, cold, and hard—“have you ever noticed you’ve got it made, Peter Dawson? Now I’m not kissing your ass, but you are well provided for, you have a bright future ahead of you, and all these institutions are breaking their necks to get you in their lecture halls. You may be stunning, admirable even, but that know-how and wised up attitude apparently makes you, pardon my French, the ugliest damn thing anyone has ever seen in the halls of Westerburg.”

Peter’s entire body completely stilled while on the inside his stomach was sinking faster than his bottom on the throw pillows. Where was all of this coming from? If he wanted to really look at it, physically or in a more dispositional context, what Keith had said wasn’t right.

Students couldn’t heckle him for having a brain in _school_ , they most certainly had no right to blame his parents for earning more than the average Ohioan family, and he would riot if someone came up to him one day and said, “fuck you for accepting all of these life changing opportunities because you’ve given your blood, sweat, and tears to the task.”

Peter was a good boy. His mother said so. He felt it right in his bones that he had more than it took to make it out there once he was handed his diploma in May.

“I’m only trying to open your eyes. It would bring out your human side more if others saw you walking the halls with a girl a little less your equal,” Keith continued, splayed in a spread-eagle manner that made him look pretty crass.

“Keith, you’re a good friend, and I want to tell myself I understand what you’re implying,” Peter started off, picking his best words carefully like he was penning another scholarship essay, “but even if you weren’t kissing my ass, you sure did sound like one.”

Peter’s disgust in his friends flared up in a temper that made his heart skip a beat, but he just couldn’t stop dwelling on it. _How would me having a significant other make the student body think anything different of me? Would I like one? I don’t know. Do I need one at the moment?_

“I would sure hope so,” Courtney abruptly cut in. Peter startled easily, convinced for a second that Courtney was butting in in his head. “Peter, even an overachieving brainiac like yourself needs a little attention in some places. I mean, I sure hope you’d want to have someone nice hanging off your arm like a watch from Tiffany and Co. Not like soot stains from sweeping chimneys and playing in dirt all day.”

Peter’s mouth remained in a hard line from the distasteful pins-and-needles swarming his chest in lieu of his heartbeat. The more words out of Courtney’s mouth, the more pins and needles were added.

“I always see Courtney Caulfield hanging around you. How come? Are you guys friends or in homeroom together?”

Samantha’s nose wrinkled. “He’s on yearbook staff with her, right?”

“That weird chick with the tumbleweed hair and bad teeth?” Theo wanted to (falsely) identify.

Peter swallowed some anger while it was still a tiny fire-seed and wished he hadn’t drunk all of his lemonade so he could cool his stomach down. He wasn’t an angry person, but this time this…this inferno was more than his heart could manage.

Courtney’s eyes were almost as still as a billboard poster. Every muscle in her body just froze before a grin crept over her face, it soon stretching from one side to the other showing every single tooth.

“You really like Courtney Caulfield?” She huffed out a wry laugh. “How? I mean, how can you stomach it? Every school day’s either another funeral or the first day of preschool for her. She’s a beatnik who hangs around the halls and parking lot, and fidgets like she’s off her medication. You like _that?_ ”

Why was this happening? The air was sweet, the weather was fine, and marinated Glenloth chicken and grilled trout with lemon would be served for dinner. Why was this country club braggart thumbing her nose at the absent brunette who shared her name? Had she wronged her in some type of way? Was it because she was able to finally relish in being the female lead in the limelight?

If Peter stayed any longer, he was going to throw up one of two things: the table or some four-letter words.

His feet went from the floors of century-strong-browns to the flowing gray of sidewalks in ten seconds. He struggled to make out the details of the streets around the dramatic drop in daylight and the burning haze around his eyes. The cold that had seemed so mild at first numbed his face, and what residual heat he had absorbed in the house was gone. For a dumb split second, he considered going back just to sit on Keith’s porch to calm the nauseating beat in his temples. But who knew what would come once he was blinded by the night?

What else could the teen say but, “Fuck everything.”

_**Snap.** _

Peter’s heart was pumping faster now due to the growing evening, icy frost burning his body, _and_ a sound in the shadows. Then there was movement, no more than a rustle, but in the failing light and already running on stress, his heart was on a hair-trigger. More noise came. Peter took a step back and pat his pocket for anything he could use − a spare fork from the cafeteria or an extra pencil − but every one was flat.

With the timing of a sitcom, a man that had seen better days stepped out. His nose was bent, his eyes bore old bruises, and it looked like he’d forgotten how to smile. Peter blinked as he approached, realizing it wasn’t a full grown adult as he thought. He seemed roughly Peter’s age, if not exactly his age. His dark jacket looked toasty but battered, and suddenly he was sitting, leaning against a random fence on someone’s lawn, like there was no reason to try to support the weight of his own body any more.

Peter only watched him take a long drag out of a cigarette before tracing his steps back home.


	5. Most Likely to Become a Spy.....SAWYER

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No drugs in the world could take her to a more beautiful world. Her world was too shitty, and overdosing on hope wouldn’t help.

Veronica didn’t think a pile of damn shrubs could send her back eight years ago, but there they stood, one bush after another, looking like a great garden.

The rest of the world didn’t see a bush of any importance, but it had been the headquarters of the most desirable gang in town – or at least in the eyes of the local elementary school, they were pretty bad. All of the third graders took clippers from their sheds or scissors from the art room and cut the lower branches of a honeysuckle shrub wedged in between the gates, the higher ones dangling like a weeping willow imitation and the fringes barely touching the ground as the kids hid together, giggling and gossiping.

Veronica could still see those eight and nine year olds (including herself) huddled in the leaves talking about the coal-and-ice of things – none of which she could remember now. What the hell was she doing reminiscing on the Caulfields’ doorstep at 8:15 p.m.?

“Are you gonna ring the doorbell, chicken shit?”

Oh yeah, Heather.

“Do I really have to do this? What if they’re having dinner?”

“Just ring it.”

“Why me?”

“Because I told you to write the note.” One red heel clicked forward. “Because I told you no more free passes come tomorrow.” The other heel. “Because what I say goes, and right now, I’m telling you to ring the goddamn doorbell.”

_Dear Diary,_

_I thought Ares was the God of War, not Cupid._

The sigh that came was a signal, not of Chandler giving in, but of the level her tension had spiked. Veronica watched her breath float off like smoke in the cold air, watched as she looked over at Duke and McNamara and then back to the rebellious junior in front of them.

“Veronica,” Chandler started off lightly, smiling in her teenage way, part fake love, part mischief, “she likes Peter and Peter likes her right back. I’ve got no objections to it, so you should be pissing yourself in joy that I won’t be the snake that everybody _knows_ I am and try to ruin it for them. You always bitch and moan about wanting the best for your girl, so now’s your chance to give it to her.”

_Dealing with Heather’s degrading, hypocritical, and mutinous philanthropy bullshit is like charging horses pulling me in opposite directions. It’s killing me. The only way to save myself is to find a way for them to charge in the same direction, to pull together. Problem is, I don’t know how._

For seemingly no reason, McNamara’s hands swam down Veronica’s back, attempting to knead in a massage and peer pressure at the same time.

“Come on Veronica, quit being selfish. Let Courtney have the note,” she poorly encouraged in the fading light.

“Yeah, it’ll make her happy.” Duke’s hand touched the conflicting brunette’s. “Really happy.”

_Bourgeois guys like Peter Dawson or Keith Priestley, asshats like Kurt Kelly and Ram Sweeney, stoners like Bess Mayer and Joshua Manning…they’ve all got their reasons to be who they are. Some of us get over our troubles and mature, others get trapped for personal gain. A primitive go-to of anxiety and emotions, but hey, that’s what’s in style now._

“The Stygian crypt will appreciate a little pick-me-up to distract her from all the reach-me-downs she does for herself.” Chandler’s voice bore the innocence of a young virgin partner, soft and delicate, even though it was faker than Samatha Dobbs’ implants. “Hell, she may be set for nocturnal emission and she’ll have no one but you to thank.”

_Please. That’s called a “ bitch” to me._

“You’re doing her a favor Veronica. Don’t you want to make her happy?” Chandler’s fingers swirled on Veronica’s cheek like an unfinished drawing, but all Veronica saw were red nails wanting to choke her out. “Come on, don’t be a jerk. Courtney really loves him.”

Weak. Her own words thrown back at her?

Veronica was painted as the No. 1 enemy once more in front of Heather’s presence. These mood swings, from being a right-hand-woman to a saboteur or a sought-after bitch to a straight up bitch (there _was_ a difference), would be the end of her. Veronica’s gritted teeth from effort to remain silent hurt behind her closed mouth, knowing Chandler’s permafrost-stare would last as long as it took her to think of the most brutally cutting toxin she could tear her character down with.

After that, she could kiss anything salvageable goodbye − which right now might just be her chances of seeing halls of ivy.

So obedient puppy Veronica Sawyer did as told, and even the doorbell had a weariness to it as if it had rung one too many times. The sound of snickering behind her brought a scowl to Veronica’s face, but then her second emotion showed surprise at the small breeze clipping past her as the door opened. Lindsey Caulfield, looking like a disco ball in her silly floral skirt and peach cardigan, smiled and planted a kiss on Veronica’s cheek.

“What’re you doing here baby? It’s almost 8:30. You need a ride home?” Lindsey rambled, her Long Island accent thick with concern.

“No Mrs. Caulfield, I’m all good,” Veronica explained in a rush when Lindsey was about three steps away from the landline. “I was just wondering if Courtney was home.”

“For once, yes. _Phew_ , is that all? Girl, you had me thinking you were stranded by your friends or some asshole who can’t drive for shit. Come on, in, in.”

The sweet smell of jasmine lingered in the air so that when Veronica crossed the threshold, it was like a shot of adrenaline right to the heart. She wanted to hold her breath, but this was not going to be quick. Visits to the Caulfields never were.

“ _Vwonica!_ ” The body came before the voice, if that was even humanly possible, but regardless of physics Veronica found herself with an armful of the hyperactive man of the house. “Pick me up! Pick me up!”

Lindsey spun through a variety of mom emotions before settling the pinwheel on angry. “Jeffery… Jeffery− boy! Get off of her. God gave you legs for a reason, so use them.”

A gap-toothed grin shone up at the woman as the boy went limp on Veronica’s thigh, laughing around his lisp, “Can’t, they bwoke.”

“It’s okay Mrs. Caulfield, he’s not that heavy.” Veronica held the ten year old up high on her hip. “Besides, I’ve been meaning to ask my parents about this only child business. Can I steal him for the weekend and never give him back?”

Jeffery became greatly alarmed and struggled for a second in her arms, receiving a kiss with a little laugh. At the foot of the stairs, Courtney walked in on a priceless moment − her best friend holding her brother captive, Jeffery squirming like a fish out of water, and her mother rolling her eyes to the ceiling muttering something about the lottery.

“Veronica? What are you doing here? I thought you’d be home.”

“So did I.”

Veronica set Jeffery down, fixing her hair scuffed up from the playful tussle while Courtney asked her mother if she could stay over. She had to smile at Lindsey’s nonchalant _you don’t need to ask, she’s family_ , but it instantly flipped upside down when she and Jeffery left them alone.

“Can we talk in your room and not out here?”

“What’s wrong with the living room? Too small for you to enjoy?”

Courtney’s wink over her shoulder exclaimed the _that’s what she said_ for her as she led the way upstairs, and Veronica was able to muster a fairly good imitation of a smile. Passing one of the windows, she saw Heather light a cigarette, puff, and scowl in warning. The swiftness of the movement was aggressive enough to startle, but Veronica was not in the mood.

“Your brother getting any better?” She asked as a distraction, this time genuinely smiling when she passed the hanging baby photos of the Caulfield siblings.

“As we’re getting poorer, yup.” Courtney’s shoulders went up as her own smile went down. “He’s trying his best. I can’t shit on him for that. At least it’s not a stutter. Then I’d be willing to work my ass for more money.”

Veronica smirked as Courtney finally pushed a door open against the tide of objects that littered the floor on the other side of her bedroom. The sly smile widened when the latter jumped after her rear end had been bumped by Veronica’s knee.

“How much to get some French off my chest?”

“I’m feisty but pricey, _ma belle amie bleue._ ”

Both girls stepped into the small, cluttered, tucked away four-walled sanctuary of Miss Caulfield. It used to be a Queen Anne Tudor bathroom, or so Veronica had heard, to the back of the house with the tiles replaced with dark blue carpet before it’d been renovated.

“You redecorated,” Veronica teased under her breath, fiddling with a dream catcher swinging above the air vent. She eyed a cork board pinned, tacked, and taped with numerous polaroids and school awards. “God, yeah, I remember those stupid ceremonies where they made us dress up for those tacky Dollar Store ribbons and butchered our names in the mic. You always scored A/B Honor Roll but never—”

“Talk to me, Sawyer.” Courtney had already made herself comfortable and was hugging one of the many stuffed animals vacationing on the bed. “What are you doing in this neck of the woods?”

Veronica made space to lie down across from her. _Might as well put on the charm before the storm_ , she thought, taking a steady breath.

“We haven’t been best friends in awhile. You know, the usual − study dates, making fun of the mannequins downtown, hitting burger joints.”

“Hitting actual joints. Either you’ve been smoking or you really mean it.”

“Come on, I’m serious.”

“So am I. Veronica, you know how I get so don’t, you know… Don’t do that.”

The laugh came out of Veronica like a newly sprung leak; timid at first, stopping and starting. She covered her mouth but just couldn’t stop shaking in silent laughter. She wasn’t laughing at Courtney’s sensitivity, God no. She actually had a heart unlike the tin man hiding outside in the bushes with her two cowardly lions. It was the very idea that Veronica would ever screw her friend over that tickled her.

Well, okay, she was sitting right in Courtney’s face with a forged note from Peter Dawson in her pocket, but she wasn’t about to let her crash and burn under a stupid petty prank.

“Do what? I’m being perfectly honest here!” Veronica giggled out. She nudged Courtney’s knee with a stuffed monkey for good measure, and unable to resist, added, “Quit monkeying around Caulfield, I miss you like hell. You and your jokes. When’s the next time we can get together again?”

Courtney raised an eyebrow. “Should we?”

“Duh, girl.” Veronica bopped the other knee in a hopeful, teasing way with the monkey again before reaching over to squeeze Courtney’s foot. “Seriously, I miss you.”

“You miss me?” Courtney repeated. She stared at Veronica curiously at first, then with a startling frown moved in close like some kind of snake. Her words had its venom and its fangs, as well. “Bitch, you know good and well you haven’t looked my way since Heather Chandler asked for your shoe size so you could walk all over me.”

Now that was a shit storm Veronica was not fucking around with. Where was the flash warning? When did it start and most importantly, would it end? It made her insides hollow being called a bitch in a non-teasing way by someone so close, made the alarm clock tick louder in her ears and the room grow colder on her arms.

“What’d you say?” Veronica asked carefully. “Sorry, I’m just a bit confused where this is coming from.”

Courtney’s head shook in place, her jaw moving like she was chewing the inside of her cheek. “I’m confused too, ‘cause we haven’t talked this long in person since eighth grade.”

“Oh, well, you know life can get busy. You know that better than anyone, Miss Yearbook Editor.”

“But I still make time for being real. Yeah I work my ass off, but I don’t shut anyone out and ignore them.”

“Ignore−” Veronica’s laugh this time was a defense mechanism. Pitiful, cheap and rushed, but she’d take anything to fill in the gap of silence while trying to find the right words. “No, no way. I’ve never ignored you, and if I’ve ever come across that way or if I’ve acted like a bitch towards you, then I’m sorry. But I wanna make things right between us.”

“You got permission from Heather?”

“Heather’s got nothing to do with this.” Wrong.

“You mean she doesn’t string you around like a puppet?”

“What are you talking about? I’m nobody’s puppet.” Wrong, it was so wrong.

Courtney leaned back on her stack of pillows, her eyelids hanging at half mast like they normally did in French class, giving her a sleepy, almost bored look. Veronica didn’t know what else to do but squeeze her knee a second time. She was up the creek without a paddle now, and she couldn’t afford swimming out of this mess if Courtney was holding her down.

Veronica sat up, running her hand down her friend’s arm like McNamara had done with her back. She shuddered when she heard herself stepping in those yellow tights when she urged,

“Come on girl, quit being selfish. Tell me what’s biting you.”

Courtney turned to the window and stared at the mellow evening sky. She went and sat half-unconsciously by the sill, making Veronica rise with a determined air to join her. She honestly expected the window to open and to see Heather crouched down below in the hedges like some cheap comedy bit, smoking her cigarette and unaware that she’d been discovered. Thank God Courtney kept the window closed, but that didn’t excuse the fact that she looked like she was channeling Tears for Fears in her own inner mad world.

“I do miss you V,” she mumbled. “And I love all my friends, but I don’t lie for their sake. Heather shits on, kicks and disrespects you, but she’s your closest girlfriend? We call each other bitches and sluts because we love each other, we can take the heat, and we _know_ when we’ve crossed the line. Now all of a sudden the stars have aligned and you want to be best friends all over again?”

“Should we?” Shit, wrong time to start echoing others. Really wrong time.

Courtney snorted, her face impassive but tilted back a little so she was literally looking down on Veronica. “Don’t make those pretty eyes any blacker.”

When friends looked at one another like that, like love wasn’t just lost but bent into a powerful hatred, nothing good was going to happen next. Veronica, eyes still locked on Courtney, almost robotically took out the crumpled note, breathing slow while withering on the inside as she threw it at Courtney’s chest. She sprung off the windowsill and made an unnatural turn that allowed her gaze to meet the springy-haired brunette’s one last time.


	6. Best Work Ethics.....CAULFIELD

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While the students subscribed to issues with glad and openhanded generosity, to collect those subscriptions was another matter.

Courtney took the joint from her lips and emptied her lungs of pot, weary and restless with waiting, and looked from the rearview up at the weather. Shit-faced as she was, she was charmed with the sunrise’s company, and the more charmed she got, the brighter the light grew.

She supposed it was what most people considered beautiful, but seeing something so special in something so every day was odd, hard even. It wasn’t like the sun wouldn’t rise. (Okay, sure, eventually it wouldn’t, but that was besides the point.) It had been happening since the dawn of time, so what made it so special to people now? She was never able to feel the excitement of it that many did, the beauty that attracted so many artists and photographers, as if they had some special kind of paint or lens she couldn’t afford.

Before, Courtney could laugh at the weird complaining and brush it off as a loose spoke in her menstrual cycle causing her to brood so needlessly like a philosopher. Now it sounded like she was out for pessimistic attention, and she was willing to bet 15 grand that she wasn’t thinking it all because of the weed _or_ from a loose spoke in her menstrual cycle.

She moved the dope through the air that grew lighter with each passing moment, the green stench eddying down her throat and puffing out in rings ghosting the dashboard blasting the Rock station.

There was a sudden muffled uproar of laughter and jibes outside the station wagon, and the few girls present in the parking lot surrounded a mild and meek boy who’d probably done nothing to them. But that mild and meek boy had a certain strength of pertinacity, and retained his usual bland expression and nerdy dignity. Courtney didn’t hear the beginning or end of the ripostes, but was roused by the laughter that followed them.

So she smiled, took another hit, and choked. A tender look creased her eyes, but soon it turned into a glare up at her reflection. The song on both sides − “Jessie’s Girl” on the radio and her own head butchering the lyrics − suddenly doubled and tripled in volume. She turned it off and continued coughing up her left lung.

No, her nervous system did not demand the relief of pot, the cheap entertainment of Bitches v. Britches, or even Rick Springfield singing to her.

Courtney rested her pounding temples against the car window, only a little dazzled by the sun and very much frazzled by the weed, glaring deeper at the burnt sienna mess in front of her attracting attention and occupying a share of her thoughts. Thoughts like, how much would it take to knock the eyesore down? Who actually tolerated the craziness? Who was talking out of their asses to survive another day?

Nobody in the world could give her answers that would shake her anymore, especially now that she was in a mood when nothing could have caused her to think any differently. Shrugging to no one, Courtney took a drag for the road and watched part of a pink sheet of paper wedged in between the hooch burn to a crisp. With a grin and a swagger of pure bravado, she exited the car, discarded the contraband in the trash, and entered good ole Westerburg High, never high enough to enter the shit hole in a normal mood.

She felt a little shaky walking the halls swelling with kids and didn’t know where the sudden cold sweat had come from, but it was whatever, because she was on her feet. And she had work to do.

“Dennis!” Of all the blackheads and _black_ heads in the school, Courtney could spot her guy in a heartbeat. “Over here, front and center!”

Dennis weaved his way through the throng of juniors and seniors, bidding the photo editor good morning with his usual soft grin. “Something I can do for you?” He asked immediately after.

“We gotta talk yearbook sales. I’m not stupid; Peter and Miss Fleming didn’t say much the other day, but they want demands for a yearbook this year to be as high as…as high as Bess Mayer and Joshua Manning can get in the parking lot before class.”

“And right now, they’re about as high as you tried to get trying to forget about it,” Dennis chuckled around the description and his own joke, getting a smile. “Now look Courtney, you know I agree with you upfront one hundred percent. Yearbooks are such a cool token to keep, but…look, I gotta be honest. Without polling anyone here and asking them to weigh in on interests, I’m not comfortable saying one way or the other if they’re gonna make it.”

“There’s a way to make students want one.”

To anyone else, Courtney would have sounded desperate. Fuck it, maybe she was desperate, but she wanted to get the damn job off her chest so she could breathe easier at home.

“How?”

Courtney pulled Dennis in a corner, lifting up a finger as she began listing, “Hype up their egos, feed ’em flattery, gush about football season for crying out loud. We make them think everyone wants to see their faces on those pages if we have to and tell them they _should_ want their faces on those pages.”

“Hm…”

“There’s no harm in that. Everyone’s got their own section; the thespians and skaters, the Molly Ringwald Fan Club, posers and imposters, kids like me and you. How about it?”

“Yeah…” Dennis stuffed his hands in his pockets, rocking his head back and forth in stale consideration. “I’ll think about it.”

If it wasn’t for her temporary crown, Courtney would have ground her teeth for a minute straight just to make Dennis uncomfortable and spill the beans. He was dancing around something with two left feet and he knew it.

“Peter wanted a pitch for getting people interested in buying their books first,” Courtney threw out, crossing her arms. “He’s desperate, really on this thing and isn’t just being a kiss ass so Miss Fleming can sign his next Harvard recommendation. He wants the best for this school, and so do I. Think hard, okay?”

Dennis’s hesitance made Courtney uneasy, but he came through like she knew he would with a nod and a quiet “okay.” Courtney pat his shoulder and took her leave, making occasional pit stops to her locker when she wasn’t loitering on the walls or watching her school get messier with people and noise − like a movie.

It was great. There was Megan Hadley and Dustin Rivers making out in the corner before homeroom like they always did. The parade of band geeks with their massive instrument cases between their legs wanted more than just their clarinets blown, but the Cindy Crawford wannabes ignored them and perched by the water fountains like giggling blue birds.

A football flew, and two boulders in varsity jackets thundered down the hall to catch it. A puff of air hit Courtney’s ear, and well, there went the aerospace engineering kids who never did anything except make paper airplanes and hide in the computer lab during study hall.

“Hide,” the junior mumbled to herself, chewing her bottom lip until she couldn’t anymore from a wide grin taking over.

Courtney rushed to her locker for some spare paper, a pen, and a mind chock-full of what she was often blown off for: insanity. Her looping and convoluted handwriting hastily filled in the margins and dog-eared flaps with the realest or most daring questions that came to mind. It was kind of like Peter’s idea with the whole anonymous tips in a box on how to make the yearbook less shitty − only better.

She didn’t have the power of a class president or the bite of a Rottweiler like Heather to make people act right, but Courtney had something better. She knew what these kids wanted because hell, she was a kid, too. Nobody actually wanted to stand in front of hundreds of students in the cafeteria, go over to some big and elaborate box after being guilt-tripped into it by the staff, and write down the Do’s and Don’ts of the _1989: Farewell to a Decade of_ _Diligence_ Yearbook.

They wanted a change, but they didn’t want the publicity work that came with it. They were spoiled, afraid, and hiding behind excuses, so Courtney did the first best thing for Westerburg and started a suggestion box that every kid would be comfortable with. By third period American History, she’d seen about seven manicures on that paper passing it to girlfriends, and caught at least four glimpses of a bent flap beneath faded Levis and Timberland boots.

Come English Literature, Betty Finn had slipped the baby right back to its mama when it was her turn to collect everyone’s essays and turn them in to the front. Using Betty as a shield, Courtney unfolded the note to see bulky Sharpie, slim ballpoint pen, and wafer-thin pencil crammed in untidy cursive or shorthand writing along the narrow lines and white space on the front and back.

She giggled to herself and hid it in her pocket just as the bell dismissed everyone for lunch. Man, was she proud of herself.

“Courtney Caulfield? Come over here dear. Stay a while,” said the prissy, vaguely British, gave-no-shits-if-you-bombed-her-class voice of Norma Buchanan.

Courtney grumbled deep in her throat and slowly contorted her lips into an awkward, toothy smile as she approached her teacher. “Yes, ma’am?”

“I hear you’re working on the yearbook.”

“I have been since freshman year.” _I’m not that invisible, you wrinkled elephant._ “And if we’re getting specific here, I’ve been an editor-in-chief and photo editor since middle school.”

“A consecutive six-year streak. Impressive.” Buchanan did not sound impressed.

Courtney pat the backs of her thighs, feeling her creation impatiently crinkle. “And the reason I’m not eating is…?”

“Patience is a virtue. It would do Westerburg a whole lot of good if Pauline practiced it, and if these students didn’t take what she said to the head. Every day with Gowan she’s flailing and wailing about the importance of student involvement and whatnot. And now this yearbook? I’ve nothing against the woman; I too crave to smoke now and again, but she needs to stop—”

“Sounding like a hippie? Acting like a flower child? Quit acting like ‘the spirit and the gifts of freedom will not assort the condition of a student crying for help’? I’ve got more, you wanna hear them?”

“ _Please_ , spare me,” Buchanan exaggerated, holding up a hand like she was compelling a demon. “I can talk about her because I’m old and bitter and in the same profession, but you young lady can’t afford the disrespect. If I wanted to hear a jackass, I’d fund a trip to Northern Africa. Would you like to hear them?”

“No, ma’am,” Courtney muttered, slowly turning for the door.

“I didn’t say you were dismissed.”

“Then what is it, Mrs. Buchanan? Am I in trouble? Did I not cite something in my essay properly?”

The English teacher produced a cigarette from her drawer, staring Courtney in the eye as she did this. “I heard of what the yearbook is going through, and yes,” she stressed out, bopping an eyebrow in time to her lighter clicking, “even the Arctic deep freezer you kids call my heart pities the seniors if they can’t look back at the years and laugh. You want to start off right, I know you do, so reel students in with something big.”

“Trust me, I’m already working on some bait for these trouts. Besides, prom isn’t until March and we won’t be getting—”

“I don’t mean prom.” Buchanan curled her lips around the silver smoke and held the cigarette daintily between her fingers. “You do know the football team has been gaining popularity, don’t you? With the new season?”

Courtney shook her head fast, but not because she wasn’t aware. “I don’t cover sports. Sports editors do that.”

“Do you have a replacement ever since yours graduated?” Damn, checkmate.

“Not yet.”

Buchanan let out a single spurt of pitying laughter. “Then what the hell are you waiting for?”

“The meteor that struck the dinosaurs to smite me.”

Courtney didn’t care if she hadn’t been dismissed; she needed to leave. The conversation, if one could even call it that, was over. Done, kaput. That previous spark of adrenaline no longer struck like lightning to her heart, but thudded uncomfortably at her ribs like she had half-control over it. It echoed in her walk − trudging across the hall, shuffling down a floor, turning robotically to the right − like someone under hypnosis in one of those Scooby-Doo cartoons.

Flanked by a few stragglers, Courtney was practically nudged into the swinging doors of the lunchroom pandemonium and fought to keep her nonexistent lunch down. The incoherent chatter of the masses was deafening; the mixture of sweaty and bittersweet musk pouring from the kitchens was its own trademark of bad; and more than one glimpse of the jocks shoveling baked beans into their mouths and the pleasantly plump underclassmen with salads pinched low beneath Sloppy Joes got her ready to spew chunks.

Maybe she should have stayed back in the classroom. At least there she could see, hear and smell one thing at a time.

“A dime increases the time! A buck brings good luck!” Oh God, no he wasn’t. “Caulfield, I know your allowance is as big as your hair.” Oh God, no he did _not_. “Come on, a five keeps the neighborhood alive!”

_God, where’s that meteor?_

“Did you have to announce my obnoxious saving habits to the entire school in rhyme?” Courtney mumbled, cheeks burning and stomach opening up a butterfly exhibit as she crossed over to the Foodless Fund setup against the wall.

Peter threw her a sorry smile. “You say obnoxious, I say college-savvy. The major credit bureaus treat student loans like other types of installment loans. Do you know the amount of time it takes for the average American to pay off his student loans? At the hands of inflation and in between the typical repayment period, you’d easily be…”

“I like talking to you better,” Courtney unconsciously interrupted, glancing towards Dennis, who blinked in wonder.

“I barely say a thing outside of yearbook.”

“Exactly.”

Peter looked back and forth between the exchange, palms flat beside the big and elaborate cashbox. He scoffed when he saw Dennis’s mouth curling up, probably thinking his own pal was turning against him, and turned to Courtney, returning to his cringe-worthy guilt tripping rhymes.

“A ten and you die without sen.”

Courtney’s eyes flashed eagerly as she fished the note out her jeans and wedged it in the cashbox. “Is this enough, Dr. Seuss?”

Dennis took the paper and unfolded it, Peter leaning over to read it. Their lack of wanting to know what they were holding and how it could help after five, ten, fifteen seconds of silence rubbed Courtney the wrong way. Just a little. It wasn’t their fault.

“‘Oh my god Courtney, what’s this?’ Glad you asked boys. It’s my genius. I couldn’t believe how much you were going on and on about student voices Peter, so I got them for you without having to say a word. Cool, huh?”

The dead air remained defunct for twenty, twenty-five, thirty seconds more, but in it Courtney heard the criticisms loudly pinging back and forth. Dennis’s face that had once looked kindly and optimistic at her earlier turned sour, and Peter glanced at her curiously for a minute, then with a frown. It made her frown, too.

Normally Courtney persevered in silence, but her agitation was increasing the lower the guys dipped their eyebrows.

“What?” She demanded.

“These… I mean, yeah, these are impressive notes and, uh, colorful verbs and adjectives. It’s just, I mean…”

“Peter, English?”

“This isn’t gonna work.” That was surprising, coming from Dennis. “Courtney, the point of getting physical student input outweighs an anonymous source.”

“But Peter said we could be anonymous.”

Peter stumbled in place, looking half offended, half like a jackass. “No, I said if they wished to be,” he corrected sharply, “students could remain anonymous and we’d try and gain from that. The whole point of a suggestion box was to let voices be heard, not pens and pencils.”

“What the hell’s the difference with this? Nobody gave this thing their John Hancock and they’re still great ideas. Look, listen to this.” Courtney cleared her throat, the shakiness returning and the cold sweat turning hot below her hairline. “‘Special awards and superlatives for the nicer and better bunch of the school.’ ‘Let’s go in reverse; dances, sports events, science fairs.’ ‘Fuck the system, we need more grass.’”

“They’re not talking about the courtyard’s lawn,” Dennis said under his breath.

Stepping into the ring, Peter Asshole Dawson gave a blow a little below the belt. “You’ve got something better, right?”

Something shooed away the butterflies and sat like an angry bull in Courtney’s stomach, coercing her towards an anxiety and anger she just didn’t need. Why did she want the fellas to go on about how shit her idea was? Her eyes were already expressionless…oh right. There was nothing to give them expression.

Nobody in the world could give her answers that would shake her anymore. How long would she have to keep reminding herself of that?

She turned her back, hearing a faint slapping sound and assumed one of them had smacked the other’s arm. Judging by the deep murmuring, Courtney knew it was Dennis who’d tried smacking some manners back into the preppie − if the words “harsh” and “do better“ weren’t the immediate million-dollar giveaway. They probably thought she was fighting a losing battle to stem her tears.

Maybe boys were smarter than they led on.

Someone’s head detonating with a terrifying cackle got Courtney jumping hard. She turned in time to see Martha Dunnstock frozen by the jocks table before fleeing the cafeteria in a fit of rage and horror, a chain reaction of the unattractive belly laughter going off with not just the jocks, but the neighboring preps, heavy metalers and stoners. The only one close enough to the scene of humiliation not laughing was clutching her blue skirt in disgust, surrounded by the malfunctioning traffic lights in scrunchies dying of laughter.

 _You_ _goddamn_ _bitch_ , Courtney had half a mind to yell in Veronica’s face as she watched Heather Chandler pull her to the side when she didn’t immediately celebrate dragging Martha’s self-esteem deeper into the center of the Earth.

She didn’t know what drugs took over for her to park herself on the outskirts of the jocks’ bastion of vulgarity, but she was already in the high and wasn’t coming down any time soon.

“Do you get off to making girls feel like shit?”

Kurt gave her a look, and one after another Courtney felt the weight of eleven other stares. “What?”

“Watts belong in lightbulbs, and one is never going off in your head. What’d you say to Martha Dunnstock?”

“Nothing. She’s the one that came over to me first with this lame-ass love letter.”

Failed notes just seemed to be Friday’s theme. Courtney snatched the yellow sheet to scan over, the whole thing seemingly in the senior’s handwriting gushing about the overweight girl’s sparkling eyes, kind heart, selflessness, and sweet smile. The sad thing was that she had all those things, but around this thunder dome, that wasn’t enough.

“It takes a special kind of dick to that to someone,” Courtney all but choked out.

Of course there was only one word worthy of the jocks, fueling their fourth-grade jibes with Kurt Kelly in the lead.

“It only takes my special kind of dick to get you black and blue.”

The entire table laughed with a cackle a demon couldn’t have rivaled, and Courtney promptly shut Kurt up by smashing his face into his unfinished mashed potatoes. Half of the cafeteria grew silent, save for the second heated footfalls storming out the doors.

_Martha, that was for you girl._


	7. Best Sense of Humor.....CHANDLER

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rebellion is on the march, and nowhere more so than in front of her own eyes.

Heather didn’t give two shits if Veronica was flooding her bunched panties with her period, dying the next day, or if something other than the imaginary dick from that creepy trench coat wearing weirdo she wouldn’t quit drooling over from lunch was stuck up her ass.

“You’re pushing your luck,” she warned, knocking Heather’s green ball out of commission. “Didn’t I tell you no more easy passes for today?”

“You like to live life on the edge, don’t you girl?” Heather’s disposition was as sunny as her blazer and thrown out there more than her split ends in the wind. She glanced over at Chandler, her eyebrows slightly raised. “Christ, did you see the way she tumbled out of the caf? Ku-urt, let’s pa-arty.”

The corners of Chandler’s lips lifted a creeping grin. “Ku-urt, I ne-ed an orgasm.”

At least the comically whining-and-pathetic imitations of Martha Dumptruck got a smile out of Veronica. Well, more like a tossup between ‘shut the hell up you bitches’ and ‘ha-ha, uber-funny, but stop please’. It didn’t seem to bother her that she didn’t know what practical criticism was, that she didn’t know what it was like to have _fun_ , or that she didn’t have a damn sense of humor.

“Be nice Heather. Why are you always hacking on her?” Color her nauseous. Heather would know a lot about that. And she had better be addressing Heather and not her.

“I’m sorry, what are you three oozing about?” That lofty and blasé audacity came from none other than Veronica Sawyer. Interesting.

Chandler sent her a look, a signal, and stepped forward without a word. She was used to the brunette’s defeated face. She wore it every day. Chandler loved it. It meant she was in charge and Veronica was her pretty patsy.

“That episode with the note back there was for all of us to enjoy,” she reminded her, intention behind her perking lips. “I teach you to love all shapes and sizes of humor, but you seemed determined to ruin my day.”

The death of the party slapped her knee. “We made a girl want to consider suicide. What a scream. What a jest.”

“Come on you jerk.” Chandler placed a foot on her red ball, looked Veronica in the eye, and swung the mallet down hard. “You used to have a sense of humor.”

Veronica still appeared unconvinced, doing some kind of shuffle dance in the corner of the yard and thudding the front of her shoes with her croquet mallet. Chandler rolled her eyes and stepped aside to let McNamara have her turn.

“I’m sorry I didn’t get that buzz of power watching Martha suffer,” came the sarcastic mutter by her ear.

“Too late for apologies girl.”

Chandler knew Veronica did this to bid for attention and didn’t see the point. Every time she bitched and moaned, she was plucking her own wings. She was tearing them off and making herself more miserable when she stopped, restarted, and stopped again with her cracked out attitude − in the most aggravating manner, at the best and worst times.

Chandler could care for her, dust her off in the good times and the bad, yet the longer she stood there and irritated her with her chatter from another world, the more she imagined Veronica dangling from a high-rise and the only thing between her and certain death was Chandler’s outstretched hand checking her carnelian cuticles.

“Who was that guy with the dark smile and darker eyes? Couldn’t stop looking at him.”

Barf. Veronica was such a freshman gushing over some high schooler. At least she was finally off Martha’s fat ass. _Thank you Jesse James._

McNamara pinched her eyebrows together, leaning over to ready her next hit. “That grease monkey?” She took her shot and squealed in delight when the ball went through the wicket. “His name’s Jason Dean. He sits next to me in American History and totally gives me the creeps. Why?”

“Isn’t it obvious? Veronica wants his Little Dixie in her cherry slushie.”

Veronica shook her head with a half-smile, briefly flipping Chandler the bird. “Shut up, it is so not like that.”

“Funny. I really thought you had given up on high school guys,” Chandler chuckled out, sitting on a high enough stump that wouldn’t muss up her skirt.

Veronica shrugged. “Never say never.”

“I know I can say never to high school boys. Maybe when you hit maturity, you’ll understand the diff between a Remington University man like David and a Westerburg boy like Ram ‘wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am’ Sweeney.”

A proud champagne pink infused with Chandler’s dimpled cheeks, expertly blending in with her rogue, and her ears hidden among the messy curls of her hair were obviously just as rosy as her face. Her arms tingled with an extraordinarily rare case of shyness if she so much as thought of her fine college beau, and whenever something else wasn’t tingling, she enjoyed the rush of pulling his chain and asking how he was doing now that that girl had just left him.

He had been awfully quiet lately, not really returning her calls, and she had been totally revved lately. It was high time she went south, blew off anatomy, and have a big bang at his dorm one night or another.

“Ram’s sweet.” McNamara’s gentle voice sliced through her line of thinking.

Chandler rolled her eyes. “So is honey, and then a dog shits in it.” She jumped up, stretched, and pointed. “Heather, it’s your turn.”

Croquet with the Heathers could only last so long before someone lost an eye, but the weekend energy seemed to calm the girls rather than doing the opposite of hyping them up faster than a Coke slushie. McNamara’s mom was nice enough to pick them up from Veronica’s, treat the four out for pizza, and drive Chandler and Veronica home afterwards while Duke opted to stay the night with McNamara.

That had been roughly six hours ago, when the sun had some mélange of molten orange with bands of pink across the clouds going on. Then came hot silver spit from the sky when Chandler stepped out of McNamara’s minivan, and she had wrinkled her nose at the dirty ash-and-soot colored balls of cotton seen during the day shifting into streams.

She hated how claustrophobic and gross it made her feel, like she was in a cave.

A growling, low boom rolled across the neighborhood, making Chandler scoff when she jumped. _Come on Heather, don’t be a pussy_ , she berated herself, picking up her diary that had fallen off her knees. _It’s fucking thunder. You can be scared shitless of lightning, but some damn noise pounding like Heather’s finger down her throat?_

She stopped, replayed what she’d thought over in her head, and smirked. God, her humor was something else. She supposed it was much better than whatever the hell was burning and rotting in Caulfield’s head. It was bad enough she had to see that surname every fucking time Duke opened her stupid book.

What was her damage?

Black frame of mind billowing in from the south, that brassy ugly leering, her mutant hair suffocating heavy in humidity, how she always smelled dark and heady. Heady was the word for it, right? It meant dull, acidic, stifling… Right?

Chandler remembered seeing it on one of her vocab. tests but couldn’t remember its definition. Whatever. She didn’t need to think and brood like Caulfield and hand her all these faults in a poetic fashion, lest she accidentally summon Miss _Flem_ -ing and have her encourage her to “let young men and women hear the praise of virtue from the lips of beauty”.

Christ, she could hear her voice in that…pretty accurate state of truth.

A stillness fell over Chandler’s bedroom borrowed outside from the streets, and in the silence came a screaming crackle of thunder, rolling across rooftops to the pattering of rain. For a moment, everything stopped. Even Chandler held her breath. Another flash of light split the sky, and the downpour really began.

Her eyes, closed and aimed towards her clasped hands, slowly opened. Frustration swelled through her as she slowly raised her eyes yet again to the windows steadily growing in noise and color, and with another self-deprecating jab for her cowardice, Chandler swathed off the mounds of three-day-old readings and French conjugations from her bed and reached for her bedside telephone.

He didn’t answer the first call, the line was still busy the second try, she misdialed on the third and fourth after stupidly jumping at a consecutive clap of thunder, so by the seventh attempt like a chime from heaven, she heard his throaty voice ask who it was.

“Who do you think?” Sexy, dangerous, and mysterious − just the way David liked it.

His laughter was so free and pure, so childish despite his adult years. It came to her ears as a tickle and bounce. “I can just see you in nothing but those red stockings.”

Chandler rolled her eyes. “That’s what you jump to? No, ‘I know I’m a huge ass for not calling’ or… ‘hey, this Saturday I’m holding a rager and my girl needs to come’?”

At the stretch of quiet, Chandler massaged her temples. Damn, she spoke out of line. Now what?

“Of course I need my girl to come.” _Man-child_ , Chandler held back spitting when David cackled so hard he started choking. “Anyway, yeah, sure, when do you wanna party? Not like I’ve got anything else to do outside of study hall.”

“Any time works for me, but when are we gonna spend some one-on-one time together? You know, like we used to?”

“ _Ugh_ , you’re sounding like one of those teenage flicks Crystal keeps fucking renting.”

Oh, she reminded him of Crystal, huh? “She sounds like a joy,” Chandler flatly said. “With a cute name like that, I wonder just how did she get her scholarships through with the dean?”

“Heather, babe, don’t do that. She’s just some freshman always fooling around, always trying to crash a party, and gets drunk on someone’s lawn every Tuesday. I barely know her.”

“How convenient for you.”

Another beat of quiet. Crap. She really needed to work on her mouth.

“I just miss you,” she heard herself mutter, and held her gag reflex back from the phone. That was the only time she would ever allow herself to get mushy like applesauce. “I need your hot kisses and tight cuddles.”

“No worries, supply and demand is what I major in.” David snorted and startled shuffling around on the end of the line. “But I gotta ask for a favor.”

“What?”

“You remember Brad, right?”

How sweet of him to ask if she remembered Brad Jules, the semi-handsome crackass bro of her college man who chilled in his dorm 24/7 after class and once cashed a 12-pack of Mountain Dew before he came over to crash Chandler and David’s private tutoring session exclaiming his need to “let it flow.” Chandler still prayed that he meant a wack-ass attempt at freestyle.

“Hard to forget him,” she answered truthfully.

“His parents have really been on his ass about his grades, and his roommates are total dog shit. He’s been down lately by some exams too, so we got together and decided we’d throw something social next Friday.”

“And what’s that got to do with me?”

“Bring a plus one babe! Hell, bring an extra side piece if you’re feeling generous,” David added in an enticing purr that almost made her consider bringing three for the price of one.

Chandler shook her head hard, glancing down at her diary and doodling in a flower. “What kind of flavor is Brad looking for?” She mumbled distractedly.

“He’s not picky. Any pretty little lady will do. Just no one prettier than you, ‘cause…” In the faint background of dingy rap music and vulgar TV commentary, the sound of a zipper permeating clear in the receiver. “…‘cause then I wouldn’t be able to control myself around you, reminding you how much hotter you are than those try-hards.”

Chandler could feel both a smile and heat growing. “You’re not just saying that so I’ll bring girls over?”

“I don’t need to recycle words you already know you are Heather. Sexy, funny, _hot_ , pretty.”

By now her ears were beyond an attractive rosiness, and the petals on her flower were spreading out a little more. “Tell me more David.”

“My eye candy, my hooch, my risqué X-rated little model.”

Chandler’s giggle softened the outpour outside her window. “More David.”

“You’re the girl in the commercials and the videos, the hot blonde in the bikini on the horse holding a Pepsi can. _My_ princess being spanked on the throne by Billy Idol’s guitarist’s guitar.”

Her stomach shifted uneasily and she noticed that the hands she was hugging herself with were pinching into her skin. She couldn’t figure out what else to do with them, so instead they clasped and unclasped each other as if in constant need of touch and reassurance. But what they needed was to be able to touch David, to drink him in by running over his calloused skin, his tousled locks, his warmth that comforted her without the need of him opening his mouth.

“ _More_ ,” Chandler whispered.

An imitation of a game show buzzer going off startled the junior out of her ecstasy high. “Sorry babe, your subscription expired. If you want the full edition, bring a girlfriend and come party with us next Friday at 8:00. Got me?”

Chandler had half a mind to slam the phone and break up with the douchebag just for preheating her expectations. Her face had become rigid, jaw clamped tight, teeth grinding. Had David always been this absentminded when she first met him? It was time to end the call before he made her regret something.

“I got you,” she assured him, leaving the flower in her diary as she locked it and threw it in her drawer.

“Thanks baby. Be nice to Brad. Find him someone good.”

The weight on her chest dropped off giving the illusion she was invincible or ‘head over heels’ at the moment talking with her college man on a rainy Friday night. With a silent nod, Chandler smiled.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m all about business. I’ll find someone good for him.”


	8. Best Kicks.....DEAN

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Oh, brag to me about your modest, self-sacrificing splinters!” Yeah, bullshit.

If the weather could have been court-martialed, it would have been shot before the first strokes of the new evening had struggled through the dense canopy of gun-metal gray above. Winter had come early. The sudden drop in temperature had the poorly equipped rebel without a cause (and without a coat) hypothermic in his beat up Tee and slacker jeans. No matter what he did, his body heat leached into the air and back down to the cracked sidewalk beneath his cheap boots.

Then came the rain. Hard, unforgiving, thick and tinged with ice so that it stung as well as drenched him.

J.D. had never been shy of a little rain. As a boy he had embraced the wet days, his mother would stare mournfully from the window, but he would have on his rubber boots and rain slicker and out he’d go. Splashing, jumping, drinking the drops in his open mouth.

So when he glanced at all the clouds dominating the sky, he felt a rush of excitement. After a few experimental drops they unleashed a torrent of water, driven by winds strong enough to push bushes flatter than that girl’s tits who sat next to him in American History.

She gave off mega-bitch vibes.

Just when J.D.’s eyes had adjusted to the darkening town, there came a dull flash that flickered and died like a faltering camera flash. Moments later came the rumbling thunder and right on cue, water began to fall even more haphazardly from the sky. Another flash burned his dilated pupils, but he kept his sedate pace, boots squelching and his clothes soaked before he even reached the store on the cul de sac.

Sherwood’s SevenEleven was more like a warehouse than anything J.D. had ever seen before. There were row upon row of stainless steel shelving chocked with a vast array of bagged, boxed, and tinned goods. They had everything you could want − so long as you wanted to purchase in bulk.

“What’s a vampire like you doing in here?”

Unfortunately the Ibuprofen they offered was months past its expiration day.

“Sucks I can’t get my Vitamin D right now. Ha-ha, get it?” J.D. shrugged, leaning against the candies and cookies while staring into something bitter. “And I’m off-duty. I don’t feel like sinking my fangs into the likes of you.”

The frizzy-haired blonde with her snot yellow leggings squinted. “What?”

“Truth be told, Vitamin D’s in our iron flow. You ever think that’s why vampires are so desperate to drink blood?” J.D. waved around a pack of crackers while he spoke. “They can’t get any Vitamin D from the sun or they’re dust. History. We’re all selfish, depriving those iron-deficient fuckers, aren’t we?”

“You…” It was so weird seeing a Heather outside of Westerburg, where her powers were the greatest. She glanced along the aisles, her mouth pursed but slightly open and loose. Her eyes were fixed as if she was looking at something a yard behind J.D.’s head. “Never mind. It’ll hurt figuring out the likes of you.”

J.D. smirked. _You wouldn’t be hurting much sweetie_ , he thought with a snicker.

“I saw you ogling my friend today in the cafeteria. You interested?”

“What, because my eyes happened to land on something with a skirt?”

Heather’s head briefly disappeared behind a shelf. “You prefer someone with pants?”

 _Pants, shorts, underwear, a birthday suit._ “Whatever makes them comfortable.”

“You’ll like hearing this. She definitely wears the pants in the relationship. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say her balls dropped today − right in a cheese grater. Heather’s words, not mine,” she added at J.D.’s incredulous look. Not that he ever expected something so strange and sharp to pop out of Miss Sunshine’s mouth. “She keeps saying she doesn’t have time for freshmen. Veronica better watch out.”

J.D. snorted. “She sounds like quite the girl.”

Heather, with a smile on her lips, wandered further out in between the snacks. “Veronica’s so very.” She shrugged, twirling some pixie sticks around her ear. “She’s cute, like a little puppy chasing after everything. She’s got a tiny mouth but makes sure you can hear it.”

 _That’s hot_ , the typical junior’s lust-driven high drawled from the back of his mind. “So glad I’m learning this from her best friend,” J.D. said out loud. “Did she tell you all of this at your Sweet Sixteen slumber party?”

“You saw her, right? She was making it so obvious, ‘minding’ her own business and the next thing you know, she’s drooling over a guy hiding behind a five-cent lunchbox.”

“So she’s totally not a Heather?” J.D. wanted to confirm, ignoring the comment about his sacred food provider.

The walking, talking sunflower scoffed so hard J.D. thought she swallowed her tongue. “And what’s that supposed to mean?” She tried to recover coolly.

“Well, no offense, but if you and those other clones are her friends, then forgive me for being a little hesitant in taking interest in a girl if she bears the same name.”

“You don’t like us?”

There was jumping to conclusions, and then there was full out slamming into conclusions. Granted, she was right; it was not hard to dislike a Heather at first sight, and J.D. knew he wasn’t the only member of the Hate Club. He was just the most honest about it. No, he didn’t like girls considering themselves saints or martyrs who had to spend their lives ‘correcting’ a world that was going all wrong.

He didn’t give a damn what they had to say; how they made cruelty all right with twisted logic and convinced they’d go to their grave very self-satisfied with a very exalted place in heaven waiting. They could get scale-burn riding on the back of those demon dragons for all he cared. No little Miss Sunshine, he did not like Heather, Heather, and Heather.

Still, the random burning question was all in the chic’s offended pout and in the turning of her wide eyes as she waited for an answer. J.D. made a funny noise in his throat and shrugged. The way she rolled her eyes to the floor and jammed her tongue in the middle of her cheek had to be the most pathetic way of showing she was invincible from a mere kindergarten taunt.

While her credit-card-sized thought process booted up, J.D. was left to munch on the sore side of his cheek while waiting for the cherry flavored ice to overfill in his blue-and-white cup so it could put him in a well deserved sugar coma. He was field goal kicking himself in the ass for deciding to sneak out last week and totaling his poor baby in the high of his joyride. She wouldn’t be out of the shop for another few days, but those headlights would have been waiting in the rainy parking lot for him, and he would have hopped on the seat faster than…

_No, no, don’t be a freshman Jason. Obviously sexualized rebuttals for virgins are seventh grade._

“You don’t have to like me and my friends, Jason.” Three years later, but better late than never.

“Thanks for the approval,” he docilely rebut, capping his artificial blizzard and taking a long sip. “I’ll buy if you want one. Coke or Cherry?”

“Veronica’s not a Heather, Jason. Nowhere near it.”

“So I’ve heard, but I haven’t seen it.”

Heather, flawlessly assuming the lead role of playing dumb, asked, “What do you mean?”

“I take it that chubby brunette wasn’t a girlfriend of yours? I mean, I know you ladies are vultures in your own circle and probably read each other’s diaries or ‘borrow’ one too many pairs of shoes. But what the hell was that about that the whole cafeteria got front row seats?”

Heather’s laugh sounded a trifle shaky, but it was a laugh nonetheless. “Oh please, we were doing Martha Dumptruck a favor! We weren’t actually expecting her to go up to Kurt Kelly. Like, who has the balls to go up to a crush like that?”

“Probably Veronica. If you say her balls have dropped, then if she’s apparently drooling over some guy with a five-cent lunchbox, she’ll pull a Martha and come up to me herself to confirm.” He paused, took another long sip, and shrugged. “She wouldn’t need her best friend passing on a message, right?”

Heather only stared and continued to stare at J.D. as though he were a thing accursed and unclean. Again, it did _not_ take long to dislike a Heather, but in an odd, sickeningly charming and vile kind of way, he supposed their Lake Taymyr shallowness and superficial tendencies could be balanced by habits of thoughtfulness.

After all, she didn’t have to be bringing up, jonesing, and kissing her friend’s ass in the first place. Especially for a guy who just happened to make eye contact with her more than once, for both good and bad reasons.

J.D. didn’t know why, but he got the most out of left field feeling that if this Veronica girl had had the name “Heather”, he would probably still go after her. Something in her was trying to be like her friends and trying not to murder them at the same time, and he wanted to see more of that restrained second side. Maybe push it along with some fancy words, some midnight SevenEleven runs, and a little extra hour on his ride just to see how literal or figuratively it could go.

“Did you say Coke or Cherry slushee?” The offer was still on the table for the dormant human decency behind that deceiving yellow.

“I didn’t.” Heather snatched up a bag of chips and headed for the counter, throwing one last smile over her shoulder. “See you around, Jason Dean.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven’t updated this in three weeks but it’s felt like three months. I want to say thank you very much for those who have read or left a Kudos. I’m not saying this for my health − it really does mean a lot to see steady feedback. I really do see something in this story, and I hope you will, too. So again, thank you very much for reading! Please stay safe, and if you’re out of school, have a great summer ☀️


	9. Best Chances to Become an Actress.....DUKE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She had the pure and placid expression whenever she knew it was to her advantage. But when she was angry and alone, look out.

Heather clutched her copy of _The Catcher in the Rye_ tighter as she felt another body thump into the couch. Billy Palmer, a junior rumored to have the book smarts of a third grader, half tumbled half jumped on the two seater. With a whoop and a fist pumping in the air, he looked like a baby deer learning how to walk as he staggered to his feet and joined a group of skaters in the corner chanting his name.

Heather couldn’t believe Billy was one of Michael Gallimore’s best friends. Just the sight of him was revolting. She wondered if Michael knew McNamara was throwing a last-minute but totally bitchin’ party tonight while her mom was stuck over in Columbus. She also couldn’t believe and would continue to refuse to believe that McNamara was ever this popular to begin with. She had to give her props; there had to be at least twenty or thirty kids under one roof, getting drunk, high, and busy in the pantries and guest room.

It was no rager like the immature frat parties Chandler sometimes dragged her along to whenever her date needed a date, or when she was too cool to admit she wanted someone to drive home with after she got wasted. Anybody could get weed, booze and snacks, but the atmosphere at a house was a whole lot cleaner than whatever was in the waters at those rat traps they called Remington or Kent State dorms.

The couch dipped under someone’s weight, and Heather already had a few colorful denials to make out with whatever horny freshman was up next to bother her. She giggled in relief when it was only her blonde girlfriend.

“Enjoying the view from here?” McNamara asked, nodding out to the sea of stupidity.

Heather nodded timidly, flipping to the next page of her book. “It’s so very,” she said above the music. “I could never throw a party like this Heather.”

“Please, it’s just a quick get-together. Can’t believe my mom was actually dumb enough to drive a thousand miles because I asked her to.”

“No, really. There’s gotta be at least eighty people here. You outdid yourself, Little Miss Cheerleader.” _Heather could do better_. “Heather could never.”

A faint dust of pink grew over McNamara’s cheeks as she shook her head. “You really think so?” She pulled her friend in close without warning, not catching the uncomfortable grimace tossed over her shoulder. She really didn’t do hugs but she supposed she could make an exception. “You’re a sweetheart. Tell you what, I’m gonna head to SevenEleven and get you something special.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I might as well if you’re gonna be camping on my couch. It’s no biggie. I’ll be back in like twenty minutes.”

Heather pointed to the nearest window she could locate above all the heads and bodies. “Isn’t it pouring?”

“A little water never hurt anybody.”

McNamara was already waving over her shoulder and tangling and untangling herself with her guests. Heather supposed if she wanted to wear a permanent frizz for the rest of her life, she wasn’t going to stop her. She tried returning to her book, but the garbage music, smells of sweat and pot, and loud jeers didn’t exactly help set her inner bookworm at ease. She gave up and returned to people watching instead, instantly noticing two freshmen − they had to be, God they were so obvious − giggling like girls possessed.

As they stood by the stairwell, four guys above them whispered to one another. Heather actually felt a slab of pity for the girls, because whatever the guys were jonesing about got them snarling down the steps in group laughter, surrounding the girls on both sides, and feeding them some lines that got her gagging.

She didn’t want to know how a hairdryer, shoes, and ‘down’ were being used in a risqué suggestion, but whatever was going to happen got the girls hooked. She watched with a grimace as the six new friends bundled upstairs.

“Boys,” she muttered under her breath, retreating to her pulpy novel.

“Always thinking with the wrong head.”

Heather started so bad at the voice that her ass promptly met the carpet, giving her a major rug burn and wedgie beneath her skirt. Not a good combination. “What the hell!”

“Yeah, I get that a lot.”

“What…what the hell!”

“You bumped your ass, not your head. We don’t want your second little moneymaker getting damaged, do we?”

Heather huffed and sprang to her feet, wincing at the hot imprints on her skin. She managed to play it off with an indignant look, tossing back her dark coiffed locks. (Okay, they were more of a waif cut, but still way better than McNamara’s.)

“I don’t remember inviting you.”

“I don’t remember you being the host,” Courtney Caulfield coolly rebut, swirling her stupid red solo cup like she was some trendy socialite.

“I meant inviting you to sit.” _Smooth Heather, real smooth_. “Or talk to me, for that matter.”

“Oh, so sorry Your Royal Highness. I neglected your prestigious approvals.” Heather’s jaw locked in place while her eyes were the only thing on her that moved to watch Courtney rise with grace. “May I sit and converse?” She trilled in a practiced accent.

Heather didn’t know how long she held the heated staring contest, but it was long enough if the curly-haired freak had interpreted her refusal to talk as a tacit acceptance of getting to sit. The bitch lowered herself as gracefully as she had risen, making Heather mad all over again.

“What are you even doing here? No one invited you.”

“No one invited seventy-five percent of the people here, either. I doubt you need to worry over a VIP list.”

“So? Heather doesn’t want you here, and she’s going to be pissed, disgusted, and offended if you don’t crawl your sorry ass out that door and back to your man-cave.”

Courtney turned her eyes on her, slowly scanning her up and down that made her skin crawl and stomach twist. Whatever the dyke’s problem was, she didn’t approve but was satisfied if her words were finally getting through to those wax-infested ears. Heather bopped her eyebrows in an I-told-you-so manner when Courtney’s face seemed to deflate.

“Oh, don’t…don’t do that.” She almost smirked at her pleading tone. Served her right. “Don’t talk in third person baby. It’s not cute.”

Heather’s triumph crashed and sank like the damn Titanic, and she was sure the smartass caught her surprised look before she could even register it for herself. She was smirking at her, too!

“Don’t call me ‘baby’, you damn hussy.” Yeah, because that was what was more important. Being called a pet name in the most condescending tone. She bet Courtney couldn’t even spell condescending. “You better tell me why you crashed Heather’s party.”

“That again? I told you”—Courtney actually had the nerve to flash a finger (not _the_ finger, but at least she had cut those claws) in a silent _wait a minute_ gesture as she took a swig from her cup and swallowed loudly—“I told you this party had no list to begin with. I’m not staying long anyway.”

“Thank God,” Heather muttered, watching with malice as Courtney got up again just to stretch and stare out at the party.

She rolled her eyes, thinking back to the five-minute-old pity she had felt for those ninth graders. She wasn’t even feeling five seconds of pity for Courtney at what was undoubtedly her first party in her entire high school career. She was practically like that brat with the golden coin to the chocolate shop or whatever the hell he had gotten. Everyone they always saw in the hallways were acting just like themselves, only extra loud and extra daring with booze and grass pumping through their veins.

Especially Russell Keller. With his dumbass lopsided grins every time someone handed him another beer, or the way he shook that ridiculous ratted bedhead when one of his favorite bands blasted on the stereo. He was no Ram Sweeney or Kurt Kelly. Hell, he was no Michael Gallimore, but he would do nicely.

Chandler had loosely suggested him over the phone after the Gallimore heartbreak, and at first Heather had to really think about him. He wasn’t some painfully obvious outsider like that goth freak Veronica was boning after, but she could count on her fingers the number of times she’d seen Russell sitting remotely close to her table in the cafeteria or spotted him in the halls with someone she could easily say hello to and then throw an extra hi his way.

He was no lone wolf, but he was not a somebody either. And somehow, Heather was drawn to that. Plus, who knew he had such a wild side? The way he had grabbed at Vicky Curtis was in no way legal, and the eight beers he had knocked back was vicious but hot.

She exuberantly threw her novel under the cushions for safekeeping when Russell looked her way. A second too late. He was whispering to his friends, probably already thinking she was another Betty Finn or worse − friends with the crypt keeper. Courtney still hadn’t moved and was still staring.

“You can leave now,” Heather snapped, hearing the almost desperate tone in her voice. Almost. She wasn’t going to give a reason for the weirdo to stay even longer. “Really,” she added when Russell glanced over again.

_Shit, he’s coming over. He’s really coming over!_

“Hey you.”

_Holy shit, I’m in the jungle now. He’s more wild than—_

“Hey loser.”

Heather’s head snapped to the side, the muscles in her legs going stiff and her jaw once again locking in place. She had half a mind to tell Courtney to shut the hell up, he wasn’t talking to her, why couldn’t she find some other party to crash and shove that cup right up her hairy—

“Damn, I’m hurt. Is that any way to talk to your best friend?”

Heather’s head snapped up to Russell. He wasn’t even looking at her or talking to her. Only Courtney, _just_ Courtney. Her head went back and forth a few times from their conversation so fast she thought she’d give herself whiplash.

“Please, grow a pair. Fancy seeing you here, though.”

“Yeah, well, I wasn’t exactly invited.”

“You’re not special.”

Russell chuckled and looked down in his cup, eyes flashing some kind of emotion. “You come here alone tonight?” Heather thought that maybe, finally, it was about time he was addressing her. She opened her mouth, but then Russell wasn’t finished. “Thought you’d be caught up in all that yearbook stuff to let loose.”

Heather growled under her breath, the disbelief that these two knew each other and were holding a conversation like she wasn’t sitting right in front of them paralyzing her. It infuriated her. So rude!

“I took some unpaid time off,” Courtney lamely joked, which got Russell laughing again. “Thought this type of atmosphere would sober me up, so to speak. Probably the wrong crowd. Parties like this aren’t my thing.”

 _How would you know?_ Heather wanted to snap. She didn’t know what was stopping her from saying it out loud. Russell deserved to know just how his ‘best friend’ was.

“You wanna bail?”

Heather’s eyes widened. No. No, no, no way in red, white and blue hell were these two actually leaving. No way was Courtney fucking Caulfield leaving with a decently cute guy at a quarter to midnight. Heather hadn’t had so much as three beers and she felt like she was suffering from some cruel drunken hallucinations. Why did the world hate her?

“I’ll stick around for a minute. I’ll come get you when I’m ready.”

“’Kay.”

His hand still on his cup, Russell pointed up two fingers in a parting gesture and pushed through the throng of students back to his group. He hadn’t even acknowledged Heather, that douchebag! And ‘I’ll come get you when I’m ready’? Who the hell did this girl think she was?

“Grinding your teeth has consequences. How do you think I got this crown?”

Heather glared, forcing her teeth to stop moving. “I don’t give a damn. How does Russell know someone like you?”

“He lives in the next neighborhood down from me.”

“You’re lying.”

Courtney was back to that slow and uncomfortable scanning. She sipped from her cup, equally slow, and turned her head to the party again. “You got me. He lives closer to those utopian suburbs,” she quipped, “with better lawns than mine and fancy silverware. More of Peter Dawson and Michael Gallimore territory.”

Heather’s teeth picked up where they had left off at the mention of her ex. She shouldn’t have cared for the jab at someone who dumped her not even 24 hours ago, but she still found it rubbing her the wrong way. The most she knew about Peter Dawson was how he dated Heather in their sophomore year for three weeks and got slapped after he’d won her a stuffed rhino at the 4-H fair.

“And how would you know about Peter and Michael?”

“Well gee, I think Peter’s also on the yearbook with me. He and Dennis Herman are good friends, so by association I’m good friends with them, too.” The way Courtney was fluttering her eyelashes, staring up at the ceiling, and tapping her chin like she was lost in thought… _Ooh_ , Heather wanted to slap her. “Michael’s little brother hates my guts though. No friendship there.”

_Good._

“Betty’s told me so much about that circus of a family ever since she started dating one of the clones. Can’t say I blame them; I am one crazy bitch, so I can see why little Theo needs a security blanket around me.”

_Everyone who comes into contact with you needs a different kind of protection._

“Weird, ’cause I’m not crazy enough to go around brainwashing people into forging notes, wondering if they have Thanksgiving in Africa, or having the reputation of a used dish rag.”

_You smell like one._

“I’m not sloppy, I’m not dirty, and I sure as hell don’t need so many holes stitched back up.” She was smirking again. God, she was smirking _again_ , right at her. “Nah, that’d be, like, killer. Wouldn’t it Heather?”

Heather kept her undivided attention as steady as she could manage, blinking once, then twice. There was a forced grace to her, slowness in her body movements as she got off the couch and a softness in her voice when she said,

“It’d be very.”

She let Courtney relish in her swift look of triumph before it transformed into permanent shock after Heather’s hand made contact with her cheek. The sound had struck just in time to a pause in the music, so several heads could turn and stare at the sudden noise. The damn masochist had barely flinched at the impact, but she couldn’t stop her eyes from shaking and lips from thinning.

_Double good._

“Oh please, I didn’t knock that crown out your mouth,” Heather spat, crossing her arms. “And speaking of crowns, yes, Your Royal Highness permits your dismissal. Now.”


	10. Loudest Thinker.....MCNAMARA

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts unprotected can be dangerous, thoughts spoken out loud can be murder. Guess she liked to live life on the edge.

Before they had even stumbled out of sight and were in the clear, Ram was already spinning Heather McNamara around like a goddamn pinwheel and they were both tumbling onto the ground just like how they kissed: rough and fast. One inhale of his musky scent and Heather wanted to turn away, but his right hand had already dropped to her thigh, tearing up the skirt that hung so loose above her knees.

“You ass, that was Heather’s,” she hissed. But he didn’t care, and she guessed she liked that.

She couldn’t move even if she tried, like his hands had short circuited her mind in the best possible way. She kissed him back, her mouth stretching wider than it should as it fought between grinning and kissing. They had done this so many times and it kept on getting better. She felt electricity in her skin, hormones shutting her up, and whenever she’d hear fabric rip, one touch and it was over.

It was always that way with Ram.

Pecking every inch of his face, Heather could feel the struggle to keep his hands down. She just wanted to place butterfly kisses down his chest and abs. He was a football player for God’s sake. Why shouldn’t she have the right to marvel and admire up close?

Someday she wanted to fall gracefully on a bed next to him and sink into the pillows before straddling his hips, teasing him in nothing but her socks. She wanted to feel his hair in her hands. She loved the softness, loved watching it tumble as she teased it. She wanted him to take all of her, savor every moment. She wanted to enjoy it, but most of all she wanted him to enjoy it.

Ram hated the mushy bullshit. When his hands were in her hair, it was to yank and pull at the roots. The most graceful fall on a bed they had ever done was on his friend’s water bed after he had smoked himself to sleep, and it was more tormenting than teasing whenever Ram would ‘think about’ having a good time one weekend or another. He never returned calls.

 _Bastard_ , Heather’s mind snapped as she was left a sweaty and sore mess. She watched in a tired disdain as her bulky boyfriend lit a lone cigarette and pulled up his pants, occasionally scratching his ass. _Would it kill him to have some damn chivalry?_

“You were hot babe,” he drawled out, and Heather almost rolled her eyes. Hadn’t he said the exact same thing to her last week? “Same time next Tuesday.”

She didn’t like how that had been more of a statement and not a question. It was as if she were some cheap slut with nothing better to do and he was confirming for himself when they would meet again. But in her current state and with her mind flying in so many directions, she had no choice but to mutter a nonchalant “hell yeah” and watch Ram stumble out of the woods and up the small hill into the school parking lot.

Without so much as a goodbye.

Heather rubbed her shoulder, chewing her upper lip like bubblegum. For a minute she thought of calling him back, though it wouldn’t do her any good and she knew it. Ram usually liked to brag to his posse about his morning wood in the woods any chance he got, and he could easily get away with looking unclean and ruffled. He could blame it on football practice or beating a nerd’s ass. Cheerleaders, however, did not roll around in the mud, so Heather had no choice but to freshen up.

She did not want to be that week’s entertainment and could just _hear_ Chandler going after her once she got over that her favorite skirt had been shredded. Maybe she’d fork over her allowance so she could get a new one. They could make a whole day of shopping out of it and then she wouldn’t be as pissed.

Heather ignored the curious stares the best she could as she strut down the hall, head high. Her hair was barely combed back into its messy ponytail, and grass stains smeared across her forehead. With her blouse unbuttoned, Heather’s skirt torn and caked in dried mud, and her bra still tangled in the bushes, she was perfectly okay with it.

Ram must have sensed how lonely and anxious she had been waiting to hear from him after two weeks of nothing. That was why he’d called at almost three in the morning so they could meet and make out in the woods behind the school. Yeah, he hadn’t said he was sorry for not making it to her party, but it had been a super last minute party. He made up for it by being more daring than usual by meeting on a Tuesday. A weekday!

Heather could never suggest something like that, let alone joke about it. She was so glad to have Ram so he could bring out her bad girl and make her feel that rush of love.

 _He’s the best boyfriend ever_ , her thoughts sang as she finally made it to the girls’ bathroom. She plunked her makeup kit on the sink, having already made a much-needed pitstop at her locker, and went to work scrubbing off the filth. She eventually went to treat her face for a sweep of mascara and lip gloss when the door banged open, making the spiky wand in her hand blind her for five seconds.

Heather splashed a ton of water over her burning eye and glared. “God! Do you mind?”

The blonde blinked. “Name’s not God. And mind what?”

“Not coming in here like an elephant scared by a mouse? God, are your feet made of concrete?”

Heather thought she remembered the girl’s name being Alison. She was popular in all of the wrong crowds − she made permanent residency at skate parks and arcades with the adrenaline junkies, smoked weed with those gross potheads, and yapped like her life depended on it with every single art geek known to man. If she ditched the walkman and started shopping at the Limited, Alison would probably be more tolerable.

“Sor-ry, I had to pee,” she drew out, going to the first stall and slamming it shut.

Heather rolled her one good and one recovering eye, dried off her lashes, and begrudgingly started over. She scrubbed away what she could on the skirt, rushed to dry it so it wouldn’t be damp on her legs, then rummaged past cotton balls and perfume in her bag to find some bobby pins. She’d read how there was a cool trick to hem them or something, and if she could just keep borrowing it for the rest of the week, she could catch a ride to the mall and buy Heather a replacement. The choking sound of a toilet flushing ruined her bright idea.

 _Okay, weird, I didn’t even hear her pee_ , she thought, scrunching up her nose and warily watching Alison exit the stall to wash her hands. _Not that I wanted to._

“Nice blouse. Color suits you.”

Heather glanced down at her wrinkled disaster, the side of her mouth curving down into a pout. Out of all of her friends, including some girls on the cheerleading team, she was the most flat-chested. The fabric she had on now wasn’t a perfect color copy of her skin, but it blended well enough to the point where she could be flashing someone with no bra and they would just think she was wearing a shirt.

“Thanks,” she mumbled. She was in no haste to fix her top as she had been before now. “I, uh… I like your—”

Alison held up a hand. “You don’t need to give me one back if you don’t want to.”

Heather actually didn’t have any praise at hand, so she was kind of glad Alison had stopped her from stammering like an idiot. But it did hurt her just a tiny bit. She had been trying to be nice. What was wrong with that?

“Your shoes are cute, I guess.” Maybe she should have stayed quiet. Adding the prefix ‘I guess’ was basically a lighter version of ‘not’. “I dig your walkman.”

“Sure you do. See you around, Heather.”

Heather furrowed her brows watching Alison leave. See you around? They weren’t friends, they were never friends, and Heather honestly didn’t think she wanted to be friends with her. Alison was kind of weird, and not just by the amount of freaky cliques she occupied herself with. She couldn’t explain it if someone asked her to, but there was just something about the blonde that was odd. She guessed Alison being on the yearbook was okay. Not cool, just okay. It seemed like a lot of work, running around snapping pictures and asking people who you thought should be prom queen.

 _Oh well, nobody’s perfect_ , Heather thought with a parting wink to her reflection, fluffing her hair and making a beeline for the door.

She immediately shuffled backwards, narrowly avoiding being run into by the stylishly and expensively but not trendily dressed Heather Chandler. Her eyes flashed in surprise for a nanosecond before her red lips perked and her eyebrows raised.

Heather returned what she assumed was a smile. “Good morning Heather.”

“It was until I found you in here escaping ridicule. Smart move. What is that all over your face?”

“Don’t blame me if I’m color blind. It’s a serious condition.”

“Clearly. Move over.”

Heather roughly pushed her aside and poked around her makeup bag, completely missing the wave of hurt rippling across her face. She hated how she had to basically agree that her makeup skills were shit with a self-deprecating joke, even when they were just fine to her. Heather loved the big hair and leg warmers but drew the line at all the heavy makeup half the girls rocked. The heavy eyeliner channeled punk vibes and the rainbow-diarrhea eyeshadow did not flatter her pale skin.

Girls like Courtney Wyler and Samantha Dobbs couldn’t be bothered with that. They were naturally pretty girls, but she heard them complaining sometimes that if they weren’t looking like Grace Kelly in _To Catch a Thief_ or Jane Russell in _The Outlaw_ , they thought they were ugly. Heather couldn’t see from their point of view anyway. 1950s trends were hella weird.

“God Heather, did you get this from the drugstore?” Heather snapped out of her thoughts and looked up to see Chandler holding her pineapple-flavored lip balm like she was touching wet food. “What is all this?”

“My mom got me free samples after she came back from Columbus,” she tried to explain without sounding too offended.

“Damn, does she hate you that much?”

There was laughter in those mud-brown eyes as a dimple in one cheek popped up. Heather was more afraid than feeling smart to not open her mouth, where a fleet of bitch-and-moan complaints was waiting to chew out that big head dramatically tied in red. All she could do was nod submissively, face as deadpan as she could manage.

It made her so mad sometimes. She knew she had it in her to deflect any inappropriate, brainless, or plain vicious remarks from any kid. She knew they were jealous or just wanted some sadistic high out of being rude. It was different with her friends; she, Heather Duke, and Veronica traded petty jabs and nasty blows any chance they got, but they could always bounce back and rekindle their friendship because that’s what friends did. They forgave, hugged it out, then called you a bitch. But whenever it came to Miss Heather Chandler herself, whatever she had to say always sounded offensive in the most cool, amusing, and mystical way.

Sometimes Heather didn’t want to forgive her or hug it out, but she had no choice if she didn’t want to be called something worse than a bitch. Heather Chandler could tear someone limb from limb, and it would make Heather M. upset, envious, confused, shocked…

“Heather!” A sudden bark from Chandler got Heather shrieking. “God, will you get your head out of your ass and listen for once?”

“My name’s not− erm, s-sorry!” She quickly corrected herself, not wanting to take a crack at Alison’s joke. Heather would not be laughing. “What were you saying?”

“I was _saying_ you’re in luck this weekend. I got to talk with David and he said his friend’s really bummed out or whatever, so they’re throwing a party to snap him out of it. Of course he needs another hot bod to help him recover, but since I’m already David’s date—”

“Gee, thanks.”

“Oh boo-hoo, learn to take a joke. Anyway, his name’s Brad Jules. I’m assuming he’ll settle for a blonde, and if you bring him a whole case of Mountain Dew, he may even—”

“I’m not going.”

There was an awesome moment where Chandler’s face washed blank with confusion, like her brain cells couldn’t gather fast enough. Every muscle of her body froze before a grin crept on her face, stretching from one side to the other, showing every single tooth.

“Why?” She asked pleasantly, kindly, totally about to bury Heather alive if she didn’t say she was joking or had nothing to wear.

Heather shrugged, wishing her blouse had longer sleeves. She was getting goosebumps. “I-I don’t…” She shrugged again. “I don’t know if I can. Ram’s thinking of taking me out, and I can’t stand him up.”

“ _You_ can’t stand him up? Heather…” It was dangerous whenever Heather Chandler paused when she was talking to you. “Heather.” It was even more dangerous when she repeated your name. “I’m pretty sure the only thing standing between you and Ram right now is his boner. For Veronica.”

Heather’s pulse was still going, but against a chest that felt hollow. Her eyes could still see, but everything in front of her was far away.

“You can’t blame me for telling the truth. She is prettier than you, a lot smarter, and fuller. I’m just saying.” Heather could have walked away had it not been for that. The ‘I’m just saying’ didn’t help soften the blow, either.

“Are you trying to make me upset?” She muttered.

“And that’s just sad, because you are my best friend,” Chandler put in, squeezing Heather’s shaking jaw and ignoring her question. “You deserve better than Ram’s pathetic leftovers. It’s not like you’ve got anything to lose anymore. Come on Heather − Friday night, you and me. We’ll tear the streets up, get drunk, smoke, whatever. A Remington party! You won’t regret it.”

You couldn’t get any better than being invited to a college party. There was nothing more totally stoked than having a beau go to that same college throwing the party. And nothing, absolutely nothing, could ever top being the best friend of the most popular junior with a popular college junior and being personally invited.

Heather wondered if Ram would do the same once he graduated. He’d be just as popular, the football team over there would love him to death, and he’d throwing the greatest fucking ragers in Sherwood, Ohio. She would seem so mature to him if she went. Heather D. and Veronica would be uber jealous, and if things didn’t go so well with Ram in the long run, maybe this Brad guy would be sweet to her.

“I can’t.”

But she just wasn’t ready for that level of maturity yet. Heather wanted to enjoy what was left of her days at Westerburg. She only had one more year until she was in the same boat, so why shouldn’t she enjoy being seventeen for a while longer?

Heather C., with the tip of her tongue pressing the inside of her cheek, wasn’t even trying to hide her irritation. “You mean you won’t,” she snapped. “Such a pillowcase. Tell it to me straight next time loser.”

“Heather, don’t be such a baby,” was Heather McNamara’s final attempt to rekindle their friendship. “Really, I’m sorry! Come on girl, we’ll party next Saturday?”

Well, she hadn’t been called something worse than a bitch, but it was going to take more than hugging to get her best friend off her period. Again.


	11. Loudest Mouth.....SWEENEY

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, being the best at what you did could come back and bite you on the dick.

Ram was _thisclose_ to telling Coach to “eat his shorts” if he didn’t chill with that whistle. Sad that that was the only thing blown in his 30 years of staring at senior boys running back and forth on the field, knocking one another senseless and tackling dummies that reminded him of half his teachers that worked his nerve 24/7.

His chemistry one was hot though, if she got rid of those Plexiglass windows she called glasses.

Like he was begging to be slapped, Coach blew his whistle again, his arms stretched out. “Robles! Harris! The hell are you doing? You wanna be flagged for unsportsmanlike conduct?”

It wasn’t Ram’s fault half of the team sucked balls. Okay, well no, that wasn’t all true. Everyone sucked their own pair, except for him and Kurt. Him and his buddy actually knew what the hell they were doing and how the hell to do it right. Coach had never yelled at them or bossed them around because they didn’t need that childish treatment. They were beasts. No ifs, ands, or buts about it.

They were total beasts.

“About time he called for a break.” Ram spit something gag-worthy from his mouth, using the front of his jersey to wipe off whatever sweat was still clinging to him.

Kurt snorted, having gone for the smarter approach by taking his entire jersey off and rubbing it along his hair and face. Or maybe he was just doing that knowing Veronica could be prowling around, like a horny hornet. She did have a nice rack, but she didn’t have legs like his Yellow Heather.

Besides, she was falling for Bo Diddley’s act and no doubt would be boning away on a neighbor’s swing set sometime soon.

“Hey, how’s the calendar lookin’, man?”

Kurt shrugged, swinging around the jersey until it looked like a thick snake. “My folks have been grilling my case about my curfew. If I don’t quit, they’re gonna ‘take matters into their own hands.’”

“The hell does that even mean?”

“Something lame, no doubt, but I’m not trying to get on their bad side.”

“I would. Just to test them,” Ram added, nodding for Kurt to follow him to the benches. “Dude, they’re just trying to see how long you can obey them, then they’ll pull some shit when they think you’re too good and the minute you act out, they’ll turn around on your ass and ground you.”

“You really think so?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised. I’d be mad as hell, but surprised? Nah.” He pat his buddy hard on the back. “It’s what parents do. We’ll ace that little test though and catch a movie tonight, kick a nerd’s ass after practice, get a burger. Whatever you want man.”

Kurt flashed him a cool half-smile, returning the pat on the back with one of his own. “Yeah, maybe.”

“Hey, they always forget they were kids once too. In black-and-white, running up their rotisserie phone bills in poodle skirts.”

Ram knew he was a genius. Why else would he and Kurt be cracking themselves up and slapping their thighs? He knew he was a good friend too, and he knew damn well Kurt had no reason to listen to his parents’ BS anymore just to get stressed out. He especially didn’t need to hear it from his old man, who could make any _dick_ -tator (ha-ha, oh he was awesome) look like a goody two-shoes loving pussy.

The heat on the field also played a hand in distracting his pal. It was pretty much in everyone’s bones, and Ram was considering stripping off his jersey alongside Kurt if it would cool him off faster. Maybe even his shorts. But then he saw her, trudging all over the grass like she owned the place, and suddenly he wasn’t that desperate to escape hell’s breath.

Ram nudged Kurt’s side. “Aren’t bats nocturnal?”

Kurt followed his gaze, stared at him, then shook his head with a snort. “C’mon man, let’s get back to practice.”

“She’s creeping me out dude.”

“She’s just walking.”

Ram wasn’t going to waste a second not keeping his guard up. He never knew when he’d need to make a break for it if she was hungry for blood. She did have nice tits and clear skin, but that didn’t excuse the fact that she was always fucking trippin’ balls, smelled weird, and was just plain awkward to look at. From the head up, anyway. He could always imagine Madonna’s face and the rest she could keep.

Right now Courtney was kneeling down in front of the dopes that had agreed to pose with the football, then went over to talk to Coach and write down whatever he was boasting from his ass on one of the thickest notepads Ram had ever seen. Where did she keep it all?

“Wait a minute, wait, wait.” He grabbed Kurt’s arm before he’d gone too far, jutting his chin out towards the reporter. “Why not get the scoop, too?”

Sharing a doofus-like grin with his wingman at his side, the jocks headed over to the now secluded Courtney. Her back was bent over for them as she tied a size-goddamn on the bleachers, humming some sort of song under her breath. Reaching under her skirt, Ram squeezed.

“Oh, sorry, I thought it was our football. You know, same color, same shape.”

Courtney remained silent but didn’t look like she was pissed off, further proving how much of a different freak she was. Slowly, she popped out the lollipop she’d been sucking on, waving it under Ram’s nose.

“I know being held back four times from Westerburg Elementary must’ve been hard on you, and you can’t help but go back to their stunts and vocabulary so it’s like the third grader never left. So it’s okay.”

Wow, this bitch…this bitch was bold.

“What are you even doing here? We’re in the middle of practice.” _Tell her Kurt._

“You two don’t need the practice.”

Ram raised one eyebrow. “Huh, the first thing she’s said all year that we like buddy.”

“I only wish you could loan your magic to tampons. You know how they absorb whatever shit comes to them?” Ram and Kurt shared a wide-eyed look. “Whatever the hell’s in your egos, please donate it to science. But so sorry,” Courtney finished with a head bow, “don’t let me disrupt you from becoming legends.”

Kurt stared her up and down like she was nothing but gum on the bottom of his cleats. “What’d you just say to us, bitch?”

Said bitch didn’t say anything and popped the sucker back into her mouth.

Ram stepped forward. “Answer him, skank. You think we forgot about that mashed potatoes thing last week?” _Even though it was kinda funny._

Courtney smiled around the candy. “I know you can remember stuff that lasts for ten seconds, Ram. Heather knows better than me, though.”

Ram didn’t know how he swallowed all that anger. He seriously needed something cool to drink. That hit hard and stung, but he was not going to turn into some fruity punk-ass and cry and whine and beg for Courtney to eat her words. Or his shorts. Or to choke on his—

“Look Cunt-ney.” _Attaboy Kurt!_ “Ram and I aren’t doing any interviews, and we’re not answering any of your cookie-cutter questions. So try not to get your little girl feelings hurt,” his number one hero wrapped up with a smirk, shooing her away, “and get lost.”

Courtney tilted her head. “I don’t care that you two don’t want an interview. You couldn’t spell half of these words anyway.” She held up the notepad. “I’ve got what I need.”

Kurt spread his arm out, gesturing towards the school building. “Good, so scram sweetheart.”

“Sure. You boys have a good—”

“Whoa, whoa, wait a minute.” Ram held up a hand, his face twisted in confusion. He pointed a finger at Courtney, face still frozen in disgust. “What do you mean you don’t care that we don’t want an interview?”

“Because I don’t.”

Ram shot Kurt a look of double disgust, trying and failing and never wanting to go inside this chic’s twisted mind. He couldn’t believe it took him this long to digest the insult not just toward his skills on the field, but toward Kurt’s skills, too. His anger was back all over − on his face, in his mouth, numbing his feet.

“Why not?” Kurt asked, sounding a whole lot better keeping his own temper down.

“We carry this whole damn team on our backs,” Ram went on. “Why’s everyone else so special all of a sudden? You should want us on the front cover.”

Courtney shook her head. “This isn’t a magazine.”

“Fuck whatever it is. You don’t know us.” Ram pointed at himself and then Kurt as he spoke, feeling rather than hearing his voice go up a pitch. “We practice four hours a day just like every other guy on the team. Hell, sometimes we get an extra twenty if Coach doesn’t wanna go home to his wife yet.”

“You think we go on diets just to look like pussies or raid the caf like bulldozers for the hell of it? If we’re thirty pounds over or under, Coach blows a fucking vessel.”

“And why wouldn’t you want someone like Kurt on those notes? Have you seen his bump and runs? Only six seconds to spare on last year’s home game.”

“Shit man, your counters are way better than Nelson’s. Now that’s something to talk about. Not some fantasy football team Caulfield’s trying to get a story out of with their three brain cells.”

“Exactly! So what’s the first question?” Ram demanded.

Kurt was right behind him. “Yeah, what’s the first question?”

Courtney looked down at her notepad, then back and forth between the pair, her mouth slowly turning up. Yeah, yeah, she could gloat and dance and brag about an exclusive, but she better not get used to it. She needed to know the difference between real and fake, and Ram was not going to pass on showing her.

“Okay,” she started off sweetly, grin spreading. “My first question…how do you spell ‘egotistical’?”

The hell?

Courtney tapped her notepad, waved over her shoulder, and with a “later boys” that sounded unnecessarily sexy to Ram’s ears (but he wasn’t complaining), left the field. Wow. So that stunt in the cafeteria was apparently just the beginning of her plans to work every nerve on every jock she came across.

“Kurt?”

“Yeah Ram?”

“There’s something about that girl that scares me…” Sweeney swallowed hard. “And turns me on.”


End file.
